A week later, Marina stood in the pensione’s kitchen, eating a slice of toast before work.
Elena, the owner of the pensione, poked her head in the door. She hardly ever interacted with Marina, who found herself missing Anna’s pleasant chatter.
‘There’s a phone call for you,’ Elena announced. ‘It’s a gentleman. He has a French accent.’
‘For me?’ Marina repeated.
She went into the entryway and picked up the phone on the table.
‘This is Marina,’ she said into the receiver.
‘Marina, this is Luc,’ the man answered. ‘I wanted to thank you for the excellent work you did. I was able to reunite Saul with his family’s painting. He’s very grateful.’
‘I’m sure Hans wasn’t happy about that,’ Marina said, laughing.
‘Not happy at all,’ Luc agreed cheerfully. ‘But I received a new case. I’m busy all day, and I know you’re working. Perhaps I can take you to dinner.’
Dinner sounded like a date. Luc was handsome and fun, but she recalled what happened with Nicolo. It was better not to get involved with a man that she worked with.
‘I have dinner plans,’ she told him, feeling a pang of guilt at the small white lie. ‘I could come by your office after work.’
Luc paused before he answered. His voice was warm.
‘How about drinks at the Alvear Palace Hotel instead?’ he suggested. ‘You deserve more than a glass of water after a long day. I promise, you’ll have plenty of time to get to your dinner.’
‘I suppose that would be all right.’
‘Six o’clock at the hotel bar?’ He chuckled lightly. ‘Who knows, after a few drinks, you might even change your mind about having dinner with me.’
‘You have a high opinion of yourself,’ Marina said, laughing.
‘It’s not my opinion, it’s my mother’s,’ Luc responded. ‘And I wouldn’t dream of disagreeing with her.’
The Alvear Palace Hotel was on the corner of Alvear Avenue, in the heart of Recoleta. It was the most luxurious hotel in Buenos Aires. The lobby was furnished in the Louis XVI style with crystal chandeliers and rich damask sofas. The walls were covered with paintings by prominent artists and dotted with gold leaf. Marina wondered how Luc could afford drinks here.
Luc was sitting at a table in the corner, wearing a blue blazer and red striped tie. He looked even more handsome than he did at the office.
Even though they had met a couple of times, she had forgotten how tall he was. Even in her heels, she hardly rose beyond his shoulder. His long, lean build belonged to a runner, or perhaps a swimmer.
‘Thank you for coming.’ He motioned for her to sit. He noticed her gazing at his clothes. ‘I always dress up for the Palace Hotel. It’s like cleaning my car before I have it washed. It’s important to make a good impression.’
‘What did you want to talk about?’ she asked Luc as she sat down.
Luc turned and signalled to the waiter.
‘Why don’t we order drinks first?’ he suggested. ‘It’s easier to discuss delicate subjects after a couple of the Palace’s famous Gancia Batidos.’
Their drinks arrived swiftly.
‘Gancia is Argentina’s favourite liquor,’ Luc said when the waiter brought two glasses adorned with orange slices. ‘It’s the way the bartender makes it that’s special. He adds lemon and sugar and ice, and stirs it all in a cocktail shaker for a few seconds. Any longer, and it turns to mush.’
Marina was growing anxious to know why he had invited her.
‘I didn’t come here to learn about Argentinian cocktails,’ Marina teased, sipping hers. It was sour and sweet at the same time.
‘Sorry, bad habit. I tended bar here when I was younger. I heard all sorts of conversations. In a way, it’s what led me to become a private investigator.’ He fiddled with his straw.
‘When Bernard first contacted me, it was for a reason,’ Luc continued. ‘He was looking for someone. Someone who disappeared during the war and might have used the ratlines to reach South America.’ He glanced at Marina. ‘Someone who was important to you.’
‘Someone important to me?’ Marina repeated in surprise.
Bernard had never mentioned it.
‘He didn’t want to say anything unless I had any leads, and I didn’t at the time.’ Luc took a slow sip of his drink. ‘I might now.’
He took a photograph out of his pocket.
Luc showed her the photograph. It was of a man sitting at a cafe. His hair was cut short and his skin was tanned from the sun, but it looked exactly like Carlos. On the bottom of the photo was written ‘Federico Murano, Buenos Aires, Argentina’.
Marina’s stomach lurched. She gripped the table and forced herself to breathe.
It was impossible. Carlos was dead.
‘There must be a mistake,’ Marina said. She set the photograph on the table, shaking. ‘Carlos was killed more than a year ago. He was with a group of partisans who were executed by German soldiers.’
‘Are you sure he was one of them?’ Luc asked.
Marina recalled everything from her conversation with Bernard.
‘Completely sure.’ She nodded. ‘His signet ring was recovered from one of the bodies. Carlos almost never took it off.’
Luc looked at her kindly.
‘He could have sold it, or given it to someone for safekeeping,’ he offered. ‘Bernard sent me a photo of Carlos and asked me to keep an eye out, in case anything turned up. When I saw this, I couldn’t ignore the resemblance; the hair is different, but they look like the same man.’
Luc was right. But Marina couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Agreeing with Luc meant admitting to herself that Carlos was alive and hadn’t tried to contact her.
‘Carlos and I were very close. He would never leave Italy without telling me,’ Marina insisted. She pressed her fingers against her glass. ‘Where did you get this photo?’
‘It came in a recent batch of files.’ Luc shrugged.
‘The war just ended. When was this taken?’
‘I don’t know exactly,’ Luc replied. He showed her another piece of paper, a copy of a passport. ‘Federico’s immigration papers were stamped on 22 January, 1945. His passport says he’s from Lugano, the Italian-speaking part of Switzerland, so that would explain his accent. He probably changed nationalities to throw off anyone who was looking for him.’
‘Why would anyone be looking for him?’ she asked.
Marina examined the paperwork. The date was almost a year after Carlos had disappeared. If Federico was really Carlos, what had he been doing for a year? And why hadn’t he sent her some kind of message?
But it was impossible to ignore. The photo couldn’t have been anyone but Carlos.
For the past few weeks, Marina had been almost happy. But now it all came rushing back. The way Carlos had made her feel bright and alive. Her grief at his untimely death.
Trembling, she accidentally tipped her glass over, spilling her drink across the table.
‘I’m terribly sorry.’ She mopped it up with a napkin.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Luc said, helping her. ‘I’ll order you another one.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘Why do you have a copy of his passport?’
Carlos had never mentioned Argentina. And the war had been over for months. He would have let her know. Carlos loved her; he would want them to be together.
‘I told you, the photo came in a new batch of files. The client’s name is Levi Balsamo. He’s trying to retrieve items stolen from his relatives who were sent to a concentration camp. After I received the photo, I did some digging and discovered Carlos’s passport.’
‘What kind of items is the client trying to retrieve?’ she asked.
Luc took a notebook from his pocket.
‘A sketchbook by Botticelli, some antiquated books.’
Marina’s throat constricted and she tried to swallow. It wasn’t possible.
‘Carlos would never steal from Jews. He helped a Jewish family hide in a barn for months.’
‘There was a war. People behaved differently. A lot of partisans felt as if they were modern-day Robin Hoods. They made up their own rules.’ Luc played with his glass. ‘Selling valuables on the black market became a way to survive.’
Carlos’s parents were wealthy. And Carlos was so generous. He never wanted anything for himself. But she recalled the items she valued for him, the ones he would sell on the black market. Had she ever asked where he’d got them? She couldn’t remember.
And then she recalled Ludwig’s pistol. The books missing from Bernard’s library, the Verrocchio hidden inside Titian’s diary.
‘How did you know Carlos was a partisan?’ she asked sharply.
Luc shrugged. ‘I’ve learned a little about him. He sold a few things on the black market when he arrived in Buenos Aires. Then he stopped. Either what he has left is difficult to sell, or he has to be careful. I can’t prove anything unless I find the items. He lives right here in Recoleta, at 62 Herrera Avenue.’ He looked at Marina. ‘If this is too hard, I can handle it myself. But I thought you would want to know.’
She knew the street, full of large, Italianate villas or Spanish-style mansions. What would Carlos be doing in a huge house by himself?
She didn’t know if she wanted to see Carlos now. What could he possibly say to her? But perhaps there was an explanation. Maybe Carlos had had to leave Italy quickly and didn’t want to put her in danger.
And there was the Verrocchio to consider. Carlos might still have it. She had taken it from Captain Bonner in order to return it to the Uffizi Gallery. But then it had disappeared.
‘If Carlos does have stolen items in his house, he’d hide them before he invited me inside,’ she reasoned.
‘I thought of that.’ Luc nodded. ‘I have an idea, but first I need to ask you something.’
He smoothed his napkin and set the glass on the table.
‘Bernard didn’t exactly say what your relationship was with Carlos,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s none of my business and I don’t mean to pry, but…’
Marina felt her cheeks flush. She smoothed her napkin.
‘We were in love,’ she admitted. ‘We were going to be together after the war. I was going to open my own art gallery and Carlos would paint.’
Luc sighed. His face fell.
‘I was afraid you’d say that. I was going to suggest that you get into the house by becoming friends with his wife.’
Marina’s napkin fluttered to the ground. The room seemed to spin and she felt dizzy.
‘Let me get that for you,’ Luc said hastily. He picked up the napkin and then pointed at her glass. ‘Would you like another one, or perhaps something stronger? Nothing beats straight vermouth for shock.’
‘I don’t want anything, thank you,’ Marina said, trying to hide her embarrassment. ‘Carlos is married?’
‘Recently so. Or at least, Federico Murano is,’ Luc said. ‘His wife’s name is Valentina.’
Valentina. Marina tried to imagine what she was like. A voluptuous Argentinian with lustrous hair and dark, flashing eyes. Her mind went to Nicolo all those years ago, and her chest tightened. But Carlos was different, he loved her. There had to be an explanation.
‘How do you suggest I become friends with her?’ Marina asked.
‘You’ll find something in common. Most young women love to shop.’ He wrote down the address and handed her the piece of paper, then glanced up and saw the hurt in Marina’s face. ‘I’m really sorry, Marina. You’ll find that one of the hardest parts of the job isn’t locating stolen goods,’ he said sombrely. ‘It’s uncovering the faults in people. Not everyone is what they seem, especially during a war.’
Desi’s words from long ago came into her mind: I’d never date anyone that good looking. That’s a recipe for a broken heart.
‘Call me at the office if you need anything,’ Luc volunteered. ‘I know how you must feel. I was born in Paris. My father died when I was eleven. My mother and I moved to Buenos Aires in 1935, when I was sixteen. We were lucky, our lives were untouched by the war. Our family and friends in Paris weren’t so fortunate.’
‘My mother died when I was ten,’ Marina blurted out. ‘My father was killed by the Germans during the war.’
Luc paused for a moment. He gulped the rest of his cocktail.
‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was thick. ‘Losing one parent young is hard, losing two is unimaginable.’
Marina left the bar and walked back to the pensione. It was good to stroll in the night air. There was so much to think about.
Why had Bernard suspected Carlos was alive, and why hadn’t he confided in her? Perhaps he had learned something on his trips to Switzerland, but was afraid to get her hopes up in case it led to nothing.
She had been hopeful that Carlos was alive for so many months. Then Bernard’s revelation made it foolish to keep on hoping. How could Carlos’s signet ring end up on the wrong man?
A pit formed in her stomach. Married. She couldn’t believe Carlos was married. She didn’t think she could sit across from his wife and pretend everything was normal.
Then she thought of the suffering caused by the war: the murder of her father and Enrico, Desi’s bravery, Peter’s injuries on the Eastern Front. She recalled the bridges being destroyed in Florence and the families cowering in the Pitti Palace.
Marina couldn’t stop fighting. She had to find out if Carlos stole from the victims of the war, if he had betrayed her. And she had to return the Verrocchio to Italy.
Tonight, she’d go back to the pensione and try to sleep. Tomorrow morning, she would figure out a way to meet Carlos’s new wife.