by David Downie
“Why yes,” the marquise said brightly, perking up, a foxy smile stretching her lips.
“So, you are related to Umberto Ansaldo?”
The smile spread. “He is my favorite nephew,” she said, joining her hands as if to applaud. “Such a dear boy, and so clever with machines.”
“Flying machines?”
“Why yes,” she paused. “How clever of you to know.”
“A famous stunt pilot, he was, I believe?”
“Oh, above all an excellent fighter pilot, flying for the Air Force.”
“A patriot?”
“Of course! Everyone in my family is, like you and your father, dear girl.”
Daria nodded silently, her greenish eyes locking with the marquise’s shiny black raven stare.
“Do you happen to know or be related to a young man named Zack Armstrong?”
The marquise clapped her hands again quietly. “Oh, you are even cleverer than I thought, how wonderful. Isn’t Zack delightful? A pity he speaks no Italian, but one day he will learn. Such a dear, helpful boy. He is my elder sister’s great-great grandson,” she said. “That branch of the family emigrated to Australia between the wars. The Australians were not very friendly to Italians at the time, but all that has changed. So many things have changed, my dear girl.”
Daria waited, listening to the storm.
“Now,” said the marquise, “I want you to have this. From Zack. He so enjoyed meeting you and getting to know Priscilla’s niece and nephew, the Norwegians. I know he greatly admired their sangfroid and skill. No one was injured, you will have noted. No one lost his life, even the bakery van had already been stolen, and they did not damage it when they borrowed it.” She opened a tiny purse dangling from her wrist and drew out something. “I understand you found the watch and the Saint Christopher medal, but you did not have this, the third element of the demonic trinity.” She opened her claw and held up a ring. It half-filled the palm of her hand.
Daria took the heavy gold signet ring and studied it. “Joseph Gary’s?” she asked. The marquise nodded and folded Daria’s fingers over it.
“Listen to me now, I want you to know how and why,” the marquise whispered, “but also to understand.” She paused. “What you can’t possibly have discovered from your methodical research is the following. I am old enough not to blush over such things, let my dearly departed husband Eduardo rest in peace. You see, Daria, my elder brother Alvaro Spinola di Voltaggio was a, how should I put it, an enthusiastic follower of Benito Mussolini from the earliest days. Il Duce started out as a muckraker and agitator, calling himself a socialist at first. Alvaro’s best friend from childhood, a lovely, gentle young scholar named Giulio Cesare De Ferrari, was also a socialist, but of a different kind.” She paused to make sure Daria was following her.
“Yes,” she said, “I understand.”
“You see, I am not ashamed now to tell you that I adored Giulio, I loved him, he was my only true love in life, though naturally it was never consummated in any way, you can imagine, in those days…” She paused, colored, then gathered strength. “Though young, I was already married and a mother during the war. Giulio had also married, appropriately for his station in life. He was fifteen years my senior and had no idea I worshipped him. Our entire family fled our palazzo in Genoa and took refuge at our summer manor house in Prati di Bovecchia. We were all refugees from the bombardments, like tens of thousands of others in Genoa.” She paused again. “I witnessed the scene from the windows of our country house. You saw the ruins of the house, I believe, when you visited Prati and found the body of Giuseppe Garibaldi the other day. It was where we spent summers to get away from the heat of downtown. Across from the main house were the farmhouses, where the sharecroppers lived year-round.”
“I understand,” said Daria, glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one was approaching. “Giuseppe Garibaldi and his family were the sharecroppers. Go on. What did you see from the window?”
“Why, I saw Giulio shot dead by the Mussolini Brigade, of course. Why else would I have done this?” She smiled a sad smile and made a soft, clucking sound. “They did not bother us, naturally. We were considered untouchable, friends of Il Duce himself, thanks to my brother, who was also a very good friend of Carlo Alberto Lomelli-Centauri, the Questor’s grandfather. But, you see, they took Giulio Cesare away, he was hiding with us. He was a partisan, yes, a Resistenza fighter hidden by Fascists, hidden because we loved him. And they shot him in front of the farmhouse where the Garibaldis lived. I saw it, standing there with my infant son in my arms. Naturally I did not know what was happening until it was all over.”
“And Giuseppe Garibaldi was in the firing squad?”
“Yes, he and his father. They had been our sharecroppers for generations. They were brutal, beastly men, but they had always respected and obeyed us. How could we imagine…” She did not finish her sentence. “You see, the Allies were only a few miles south of La Spezia by then. It was nearly the end of the war. The Insurrection had begun in Genoa. It was April 23, 1945, a happy day for millions of Italians, and the saddest day of my life.”
The marquise slumped momentarily but soon righted herself and, clutching Daria’s arm, got carefully down from the bench.
As if he had been listening in secret from a room nearby, the aged butler appeared, holding the lantern. The marquise nodded at the overnight case by the front door. “Please be good enough to carry that,” she instructed.
Daria stood abruptly. “Wait,” she said to the butler, “you may take that to the marquise’s bedroom so she can unpack it later.” Handing the signet ring back to her, Daria leaned forward and took the marquise gently by the elbow. “Thank you for elucidating some of the background information regarding this bizarre, one-in-a-million accident,” Daria said. “As you may know, I have been taken off the case. I’m afraid it is destined to remain a mystery.” She pivoted and asked the butler whether Lieutenant Gambero had arrived yet.
“Yes, signora,” he said deferentially with a slight bow. “The gentleman came in a few minutes ago and is with the others, in the salon. I believe they have prevailed upon him to join them and finish the rubber. I tried to dissuade them, but Ambassador Bremach insisted and said Inspector Gambero would do honor to the marquise’s hand.”
“Good,” Daria remarked with a wry smile, “please accompany the marquise back to the salon and ask the ambassador to join me here, if you will. And tell the lieutenant to finish his hand of bridge, then bring the car around.”
“Very good, signora,” the butler said, bowing and setting down the overnight case.
“One other thing,” Daria added. “Tell the ladies that, sadly, I have no time to pay my respects to them today but will look forward to seeing and speaking to them soon.”
“Yes, signora,” said the butler. With the lantern still held in his right hand, he waited until the marquise had laid her hand on his left forearm. She turned to smile at Daria, her knowing, beady raptor eyes sparkling. Together the pair left the vestibule, moving slowly down the long, dark hallway, the frescoes quivering in the lamp light.
Daria stood by a window and stared out at the storm, wondering what had happened to Andrew Striker and the helicopter. He was a mercurial madman, but fundamentally a decent human being. She hoped he was safely in La Spezia by now.
Eager to check her messages and voicemail, Daria fingered her smartphone impatiently. The last time she had glanced at the screen in the helicopter she had seen among the urgent messages a text from the traffic cop, as Striker had dismissively called Gianni Giannini.
“Exeunt noblewoman and butler,” said Willem, hobbling up to where Daria stood and clearing his throat. “Enter Ambassador of Holland, having made a remarkable recovery in time for the denouement, also known as the final scene.” Bowing, he laughed, then whispered conspiratorially. “Now listen, Daria, Pinky has no idea about any
of this. I do hope she never hears of Gilda.”
Daria waited several beats before answering. “I won’t pretend to condone your behavior, Willem, but your extramarital affairs are your own business.”
He arched a bushy eyebrow, then smiled toothily. “And the niece and nephew? What will befall them?”
Daria thrust out her lips and waited, watching his expression. “Aren’t they in Poland by now, with Zack Armstrong? If not, they should be.”
“Gone for a last swim off Portofino, I think,” he said brightly.
Daria frowned. “In this storm? It might well be their last swim.”
“Nonsense, they’re Norwegian, they’re used to cold, stormy seas. The Mediterranean is like a wading pool to them.”
She drummed her lips, relieved the rain was abating.
“There now, you see,” Bremach said soothingly, nodding at the windows, “it was a mere squall. Everyone is so terrified these days of the weather. It is not merely a question of climate change but of cynical, concerted meteorological terrorism.”
“Speaking of terrorism,” she interrupted. “There were no riots in Genoa?”
Willem grinned and shook his head. “No Questor, therefore no agents provocateurs, no rioters, many valiant law enforcement officers suddenly retired, suspended, or on leave, very mysterious. You will be cleared and exonerated, eventually, but it will take time, Daria. All is chaos for now, a political maelstrom.” He waved at the rain and chuckled. “You will have to return to Rome for a time, but not forever.”
Daria shook her head incredulously. “Down the road you’ll have to tell me about Genoa in the good old days,” she said. “You, my father, and Eichmann, that kind of thing.”
Bremach nodded pensively. “Before it’s too late and I kick the bucket, you mean? Better not wait too long. Plenty of memories will go to the grave with me, including a few you’d rather not hear.”
“One more thing, Willem,” Daria said, turning to go. “Priscilla’s old white Saab, the one with the outsize plates? There’s an APB on the driver and it. So, park it somewhere, under those trees, for instance, down a garden path, or in a greenhouse, and lose the Norwegian plates for the time being.”
“How extraordinary,” he said, genuinely impressed. “How did you work that one out?”
Daria volleyed back one of Bremach’s mischievous smiles. “A kid from Congo with no front teeth. Admittedly, we thought it was a Volvo.”
“Excellent sleuthing,” Willem commented. “Pinky really had no idea she was the getaway driver.” Then he sighed. “She will not be amused. She loves that bloody old car for some unfathomable reason. I shall have to invent something.”
“You’re pretty good at that,” Daria remarked. “Why not ask Gambero to try to start it—and fail. Then tell Pinky it has broken down. From the rain and red sand. That sand is very hard on engines. Take a taxi to the train station and have someone pick you up.”
“Diabolical,” he said, grinning. “You are your father’s daughter after all. Now, in exchange, I promise you that your darling mother will be on the Rome express tomorrow at dawn. Not a peep out of her before then. No doubt you will see her in the Eternal City shortly, when they summon you to the ministry for a formal dressing-down or perhaps an unexpected promotion and transfer, which is much more likely.”
Daria shrugged, eyeing her godfather skeptically. With relief she saw Gambero outside, dashing across the parking area through the raindrops toward the BMW. “Why me?” she asked, catching Bremach by surprise.
He shifted and shuffled forward, uncomfortable. In his wheedling, ancient-child voice he said, “We needed a pair of safe hands, my dear. It is all very incestuous and abject, I admit, but it had to be done, you must agree, and I knew in the end you would see the wisdom of our ways.” He paused and nodded toward Gambero and the car now idling outside the vestibule. “Tempus fugit,” he said softly. “Time flies and so does Daria.”
Pecking him goodbye, she let herself out of the front door and strode to the waiting car.
Pale and nervous, Lieutenant Gambero looked more dead than alive, just as Osvaldo Morbido had earlier. But he smiled and waited patiently until she had buckled up. Then he pulled away and drove slowly out of the gates.
“Any reports of a downed helicopter?”
“No,” Gambero said, shaking his head and stifling a yawn. “But it might be too early to know whether Striker crashed or not.”
Daria nodded and stared straight ahead. She closed her eyes and felt the world whirl.
“So, it wasn’t a Volvo after all,” Gambero remarked. “And it wasn’t the marquise driving it.”
“No,” Daria replied, opening her eyes and touching her smartphone screen. It twinkled to life.
“It was Signora Bremach?” Gambero asked.
“Who knows, Italo. Think of it as another strange coincidence. I for one am not filing a report.” She scrolled through her messages, emitting a series of sighs, grunts, and scoffs until she came to the one from Gianni Giannini. Reading it twice in silence, she closed her eyes again, the words imprinted on her retinas.
There’s a double room reserved in my name at the Hotel Panoramico, that place on the beach, in the cove, at Zoagli. Will you come?
Driving in silence until they reached the outskirts of La Spezia and the first signs pointing to the autostrada for Genoa, Daria turned to Lieutenant Gambero and in a strange, self-conscious voice he had never heard before said, “Italo, I’m so tired and so hot and so perplexed by all this that I can’t bear to go home. I’ve just reserved a room for myself at a place I know in Zoagli, on the beach, the Panoramico. I’m taking a few days off. Can you drop me there?”
Gambero yawned and nodded, rubbing his eyes. “Good idea,” he said, “I’m going to sleep for a week. Not even the children will be able to keep me awake.”
Turning back to her smartphone, Daria typed a one-letter reply to her traffic cop, hit send, and smiled, blushing. “Where’s that chickpea tart?” she asked, glancing around the passenger compartment. “I’m starving.”
FINIS
If you liked Red Riviera, stay tuned for Roman Roulette!
Coming in July 2022 from Alan Squire Publishing
It was supposed to be a night off for Commissioner Daria Vinci, attending an elegant concert and fundraiser hosted by her maestro brother in Rome. But when she hears the unmistakable sound of gunfire, Daria is called into action again. Now she must solve the riddle of a mysterious ritual suicide—or was it murder?
The second Daria Vinci Investigation is set amid the catacombs and ruins of Rome, where secrets run deep, and revenge can be served both hot and cold. Daria must confront obstacles personal and professional as she struggles to uncover what really happened the night of the fateful concert.