Prague, the last days of spring, 14:00
Andrea joined us at the restaurant where we were holed up. We were all hungry and after managing to escape from Roman, convinced that he would not look for us where we had shaken him off, we had gone back to the Municipal House, the beautiful Art Nouveau building that housed offices, concert halls and the aforementioned restaurant.
The Interpol inspector had an irritated expression on her face as she approached our table. “Lorenzo, what happened? We can’t leave you alone for a minute.”
“Please, Andrea, sit down, I’ll explain everything.”
I told her how, the night before, the girl had asked for our help and how we had only just escaped from her pimp. Andrea repeatedly shook her head, then asked Zuzia something in Czech and the girl began to cry. It was only after a couple of hugs from Andrea that she managed to calm down. I’d never seen such a sweet, understanding police officer. Not even my friend Oscar Franchi, the Police Commissioner in Naples, was as affable as Andrea.
“Zuzana will stay at the home of a colleague of mine who helps girls with similar problems. Given the situation, all the extenuating circumstances will be taken into consideration, rest assured,” Andrea said, continuing to comfort the girl. Then her eyes hardened and she turned to Riccardo, “But you, Mr Micali, will do me the courtesy of going to the police station and making a statement about the Hašek murder. If he was a friend of yours, it could greatly help Commissioner Bublan and Inspector Lisáček to find a trail.”
Riccardo would have preferred not to be involved, but that was impossible. His behaviour struck me as strange, though. Hašek was his friend, his teacher – why not help the police? I suspected that the Sicilian was afraid of exposing himself, troubled by what had happened and by what he knew: the threats faced by the old alchemist, the theft and then the murder. We had a heated discussion before Andrea arrived and in the end I had convinced him to co-operate. The only thing that I promised him, for the moment, was to not say anything about the contents of the bag. Once again I was regretting my decision.
“Keep me posted on what you find out, Lorenzo,” he said with a wistful look, hugging me before we parted. “If Hašek preferred to entrust the bag to you instead of me he must have known what he was doing, but I would like to know the secret that maybe killed him.”
I seemed to sense a twinge of jealousy in his voice, but perhaps it was just an illusion. “Don’t worry, I will. Join me in Naples soon as you can.”
Before going to the airport, Andrea and I met Vinnie Maglione, who had come to my hotel to say goodbye. He looked dejected and after listening to the story of the letter delivered to my wife he grew even more so.
“How long do you think you’ll stay in Prague, Vinnie?” I asked, as we sipped coffee at the Grand Hotel Bar. Maglione sighed.
“The exhibition is open, my co-workers are here to support the Czechs and Italians and there isn’t much for me to do here. But given what’s happened I’ll stay on to follow the developments of the investigation. I hope there’s some news about the alchemical watch. I’m really sorry that you were involved, but… who knows, this letter might actually shed some light on the theft. I mean, maybe the mafia’s behind all this. In any case, it’s been a real bit of bad luck for me.”
I laid a friendly hand on his shoulder to try to comfort him, and Andrea Kominkova, in her kind way, did the same.
“Don’t despair – Bublan and Lisáček are both smart,” she said. “They are doing their best and I will too.”
“Why don’t you visit Naples before returning to the States?” I asked, before we said farewell. “I’ll show you my lab and my collection of alchemical instruments. You’ll like them, and maybe the Quantum Spagyria might be interested in me getting involved in some other initiative.”
The American nodded and smiled. “Trying to cheer me up with a business proposal?”
“You’re American, Mr Maglione – you’re more of a doer than we lazy Italians.”
Maglione smiled again. “Thanks for the invitation, I’ll think about it.”
We finished our coffee in silence, then said goodbye and Andrea and I got ready to board the taxi that would take us to the airport. As we waited, I received a phone call from Carlo Sangiacomo, who I had asked to pick up the mysterious letter signed IPSI from my house.
“Hello Carlo. So, what’s new?”
“Well, maybe you were worrying over nothing, Lorenzo. Inside the envelope there are two tickets for the premiere of The Magic Flute this weekend at the San Carlo and then there’s an invitation, again for two people, to a gala dinner to be held immediately afterwards at the Real Philharmonic Club in the Palazzo Reale.”
“Ah. And who’s the invitation from?”
“I don’t know, there’s no message inside the envelope. I have the impression that you’ll have to go there to find that out.”
“Maybe you’re right. Thanks anyway.”
“You’re welcome, don’t mention it. Take care and have a good flight.”