removal men rang, and were let in by someone upstairs, someone who came down here and joined them at Langley-Smythe's door. Once inside here somebody shot him.'
'But not immediately,' pointed out the Chief. 'They didn't just step inside and shoot him, he was shot in the back going into his bedroom, so we need to know what went wrong and what he was going into the bedroom for.'
'To the safe,' suggested Jeffreys.
'But what for? Not to get money out, surely? According to what the Captain's told us, they would be paying him a cut, not the other way about; the dealer made the sales. Any money changing hands would be going into the safe, not coming out, and he was empty-handed.'
'What if they had paid him,' said Jeffreys, 'and taken the money off him after the shooting?'
Carabiniere Bacci put this to the Captain but he only shook his head without answering. 'Why,' he murmured to himself, 'should they quarrel? And why should they leave all this stuff here when they had a truck outside ready to take it away?'
'Well, if a quarrel broke out suddenly and ended in the shooting,' pointed out the Chief, 'and I'd say it must have done because you don't set out to kill with an amateur weapon or aim at the heart, as you've said yourself, then they'd hardly hang about long enough to deal with all this stuff after the shooting.'
'But this—' the Captain laid a hand gently on the angel's head—'this is something else. They must have had a customer waiting for it or it would never have been stolen, a customer who had already paid a large deposit for the risk they were taking. There's no question of this getting any export licence, it's another class of operation altogether and it had to be done quickly, it's finished now. So why did they leave it, why … ?'
He got to his feet and paced about, coming to rest in front of the french windows. Staring before him, he saw the dark wall on the opposite side of the courtyard and, in the middle of it, a rectangle of yellow light at the level of the second floor. The shadow of a small figure was bouncing up and down in the patch of light, throwing something up and catching it. The Captain turned suddenly and snatched up the telephone receiver from the Englishman's desk. His free hand flicked in Carabiniere Bacci's direction. 'Go upstairs to the Cipriani on the second floor and find out if that child switched a light on when the noise woke her. You'll probably find that the answer is yes, since she was able to tell us what time it was—but check that her clock isn't luminous … Hello? Get me the radio room, will you? … Hello … yes, it is … well, we may be getting somewhere—take this message, I want it sent immediately to the men who are questioning antique-dealers in Quartiere 3—and give it exactly as I say it: Cancel previous order. Langley-Smythe case closed, repeat, closed, for lack of evidence. Inform all dealers, including those already visited, and return to base. Repeat it to me. Good. Send it out exactly so. When the men get back get their Chief to call me here, 284393, for further orders. I shall need them all night … I know and I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. I need them. Thank you.'
All over Quartiere 3, radios crackled into life, interrupting strained conversations in the quiet, elegant antique shops with polished marble floors and great copper bowls of red and white poinsettia in the Via Maggio, among the stacked-up furniture and bric-à-brac of tiny shops in Via de' Serragli and Via Santo Spirito, in the varnish-smelling restoration workshops with Christmas greetings written in glitter on their dark windows in tiny alleyways off Via delle Caldaie and Via Maffia. Officers closed up the dealers' ledgers, passed on the unexpected message, went out to their motor-bikes and switched on their headlights while the evening shoppers turned to gaze at them curiously. Dispersing among the long, narrow streets, they retraced their paths and revisited the dealers they had
'But not immediately,' pointed out the Chief. 'They didn't just step inside and shoot him, he was shot in the back going into his bedroom, so we need to know what went wrong and what he was going into the bedroom for.'
'To the safe,' suggested Jeffreys.
'But what for? Not to get money out, surely? According to what the Captain's told us, they would be paying him a cut, not the other way about; the dealer made the sales. Any money changing hands would be going into the safe, not coming out, and he was empty-handed.'
'What if they had paid him,' said Jeffreys, 'and taken the money off him after the shooting?'
Carabiniere Bacci put this to the Captain but he only shook his head without answering. 'Why,' he murmured to himself, 'should they quarrel? And why should they leave all this stuff here when they had a truck outside ready to take it away?'
'Well, if a quarrel broke out suddenly and ended in the shooting,' pointed out the Chief, 'and I'd say it must have done because you don't set out to kill with an amateur weapon or aim at the heart, as you've said yourself, then they'd hardly hang about long enough to deal with all this stuff after the shooting.'
'But this—' the Captain laid a hand gently on the angel's head—'this is something else. They must have had a customer waiting for it or it would never have been stolen, a customer who had already paid a large deposit for the risk they were taking. There's no question of this getting any export licence, it's another class of operation altogether and it had to be done quickly, it's finished now. So why did they leave it, why … ?'
He got to his feet and paced about, coming to rest in front of the french windows. Staring before him, he saw the dark wall on the opposite side of the courtyard and, in the middle of it, a rectangle of yellow light at the level of the second floor. The shadow of a small figure was bouncing up and down in the patch of light, throwing something up and catching it. The Captain turned suddenly and snatched up the telephone receiver from the Englishman's desk. His free hand flicked in Carabiniere Bacci's direction. 'Go upstairs to the Cipriani on the second floor and find out if that child switched a light on when the noise woke her. You'll probably find that the answer is yes, since she was able to tell us what time it was—but check that her clock isn't luminous … Hello? Get me the radio room, will you? … Hello … yes, it is … well, we may be getting somewhere—take this message, I want it sent immediately to the men who are questioning antique-dealers in Quartiere 3—and give it exactly as I say it: Cancel previous order. Langley-Smythe case closed, repeat, closed, for lack of evidence. Inform all dealers, including those already visited, and return to base. Repeat it to me. Good. Send it out exactly so. When the men get back get their Chief to call me here, 284393, for further orders. I shall need them all night … I know and I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do. I need them. Thank you.'
All over Quartiere 3, radios crackled into life, interrupting strained conversations in the quiet, elegant antique shops with polished marble floors and great copper bowls of red and white poinsettia in the Via Maggio, among the stacked-up furniture and bric-à-brac of tiny shops in Via de' Serragli and Via Santo Spirito, in the varnish-smelling restoration workshops with Christmas greetings written in glitter on their dark windows in tiny alleyways off Via delle Caldaie and Via Maffia. Officers closed up the dealers' ledgers, passed on the unexpected message, went out to their motor-bikes and switched on their headlights while the evening shoppers turned to gaze at them curiously. Dispersing among the long, narrow streets, they retraced their paths and revisited the dealers they had
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