Page 17 of Murder at the Ponte Vecchio (Armstrong and Oscar Cozy Mystery #11)
TUESDAY MORNING
I went into the office earlier than usual next morning and spent the time between eight and nine on the computer checking, among other things, to see if there was anything there about Axel Jacobs, dealer in precious stones and metals.
There were a number of entries in Dutch, but I also found a couple in English that confirmed what he’d told me.
By the look of it, he was a reputable trader, although what he’d said about his ‘gentleman’s agreement’ with David Berg rather threw that into question.
There were a few photos of him at trade fairs and what looked like a diamond dealers’ conference, and they confirmed that he was who he said he was.
As far as helping him get hold of his cigar box containing three hundred thousand euros’ worth of precious stones or metals – or both – was concerned, I had very few options.
It was quite clear that until the safe at Berg’s villa could be opened, there was no way of knowing if Jacob’s property was there or not, and if it wasn’t, he would face an uphill struggle to get it back.
At least the contents of the safe might help us work out who might have killed Berg and stolen the goods.
At nine o’clock, Lina arrived, looking more relaxed than the previous day.
The fact that Virgilio had decided to share his concerns with Marco and me must have had a beneficial effect on him and, by extension, on his wife.
I made her a cup of coffee and Oscar gave her a warm welcome.
By the time I went back into my office, she was looking more like her normal self.
Remembering my other case, I spent half an hour trawling the Internet for anything that might shed light on Monica Gallo, the mayor’s daughter.
She had various social media accounts with the usual birthday celebrations, holiday snaps, and pictures of her in a number of drama productions, but there was no sign of a boyfriend – at least not for several years.
In case Anna might know Virginia, the other twin, in the history department, I gave her a call and a ray of hope appeared.
‘Virginia Gallo, yes, I know her. She’s a good student, works hard and always hands in her work on time.
As for her sister, Monica, I sometimes see them together and, as you can imagine, two identical, good-looking girls like that are never short of admiring – or predatory – males circling around them, but I’m not aware of anybody special for either of them.
I’ll have a word with my colleagues. I know one of the drama teachers very well, and she might be able to tell me more about Monica. Watch this space.’
By the time I set off in the van for my meeting with the mysterious Zebra in the Bar Sport in Via del Fondo, I was none the wiser about Monica’s ‘unsuitable’ boyfriend, and I spent the short journey turning over in my head how I should proceed.
In the end, I decided to wait until I’d heard back from Anna.
Via del Fondo looked as though it had seen better days.
The café where I was meeting Zebra was on the corner, right at the beginning of the road, and it looked decidedly dodgy – the sort of place where you pay cash, keep your hands on your wallet, and find a seat with your back to the wall, not too far from the way out.
The road surface was pitted with potholes and there was a burnt-out car rusting at the side of the road.
A row of decrepit terraced houses at the far end had been taped off, and there were notices everywhere warning people to stay away as the properties were earmarked for demolition.
This was a far cry from the splendour of Piazza del Duomo and no doubt far, far off the tourist trail.
As I was early for my appointment, I drove past the café and bumped slowly along the rough road until I reached the end and found the theatre.
This looked little better than the surrounding houses although, in fairness, there was no demolition notice to be seen.
The name of the theatre had been painted onto a long canvas banner, which hung rather pathetically over what had no doubt once been the entrance to an old factory.
One thing was for sure – it certainly didn’t look like Broadway.
I turned back and parked outside the café, hoping that I would find the wheels still attached to the vehicle when I returned to it.
It was that kind of place. The only people I saw as I climbed out of the van were a couple of what the Italians refer to as extracomunitari – literally from outside the European Union.
Mind you, I reminded myself, since Brexit, I was also an extracomunitario , although probably not in such dire straits as these guys.
The idea of having to leave their homes and families thousands of kilometres away and make the perilous journey across the Mediterranean in the hope of finding a better life was both daunting and potentially dangerous – as the two John Does murdered at the station proved only too graphically.
For a moment, I wondered how I would have fared under such circumstances and, as always, I felt a pang of sympathy for them.
Even so, I made sure I left nothing visible inside the van and locked it securely before heading for the door of the café.
The interior of the café lived up to my low expectations.
In fairness, it looked clean, but there were three or four different types of chairs to be seen at the equally mismatched tables, and the clientele was uninspiring – well, most of them.
There were three old men sitting in there and a suspicious smell of tobacco in the air – even though smoking in bars and restaurants has been banned in Italy for quite a few years now.
The barman was wearing a blotchy, grey T-shirt, which might have started life white and had probably fitted him twenty years earlier but now was fighting a losing battle against his expanding waistline.
He had a shaved head and one of the bushiest moustaches I had ever seen.
Fortunately, Oscar was more interested in sniffing whatever the floor smelled of and didn’t look up.
If he’d seen the luxuriant moustache, he would probably have mistaken it for a squirrel.
However, in the midst of this somewhat depressing scene, there was one very bright exception.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting from a person called Zebra – all right, not four legs and black and white stripes – but I was unprepared for the vision before me.
Zebra was a woman, but I had no idea how old she was.
She certainly wouldn’t see thirty again, and she might even have been as old as me.
At a guess – and it was only a guess – I put her down as in her late forties.
Her hair was amazingly long, hanging right down to her waist, and I counted at least ten different colours in the stripes that ran all the way up to her scalp.
Her eyes were so heavily made up, she looked more like a panda than a zebra, but her face was friendly and her eyes sparkled mischievously.
Oscar’s reaction to Zebra was remarkable, even for him.
The moment he clapped eyes on her, he positively bounded across the floor towards her and, without hesitating, jumped athletically onto her lap, where he proceeded to lick her face.
I hurried over to haul him off her, but she held up a restraining hand.
‘Don’t worry, he’s fine. What a beautiful dog!
’ She then returned her attention to my clearly smitten Labrador.
‘Who’s a good boy? You are, aren’t you? Yes, you are.
’ She enveloped him in a hug that virtually hid him from sight.
She wasn’t a small woman and she was wearing a voluminous, kaftan-like robe in a mixture of primary colours that effectively swallowed Oscar up.
I had to wait a good half a minute before his head reappeared, tongue hanging out, grinning from ear to ear.
Zebra cradled him in her arms as she looked across at me.
‘I presume you are Signor Armstrong.’ She was using the familiar form of the pronoun ‘you’.
‘I am indeed, and you must be Signora Zebra.’
‘Just Zebra. I’m the director of the Teatro dell’Arno.
’ She disentangled her right arm from the happy dog and held out her hand towards me.
There was at least one ring on every finger and there were so many bracelets on her wrist, I felt sure she needed strong arm muscles to lift them and probably jingled as she walked down the street.
I shook her hand and got down to business.
‘How can I help?’
‘Stuff has started to go missing. I mean, it’s been stolen.
Not very expensive stuff – we don’t really have anything like that there – but money from purses and wallets, a couple of silk scarves and my old iPad.
I know it doesn’t sound like much, but none of us can afford to lose out like that. It’s so mean.’
‘Can I ask why you haven’t reported this to the police – or have you?’
She shook her head. ‘No. If I involve the police, I know what’ll happen.
If they can be bothered to come out – and there’s no guarantee – they’ll say the stuff’s been stolen by one of the asylum seekers who live around here and they might even arrest all of them or move them on. I wouldn’t like that on my conscience.’
‘The asylum seekers are living in those houses that are going to be demolished? ’
‘Yes, poor things. God only knows what they’ll do when that happens. They have nowhere to go.’
‘You don’t think the asylum seekers are responsible?’ Given their shortage of money, it seemed a realistic possibility.
Zebra shook her head. ‘They wouldn’t steal from us. I know it.’