The Cambroni Vendetta

by David George Clarke

  Sonia had spent long hours anguishing over these possibilities, convincing herself that she, and only she, was the one to help Gianpietro through his misery. If only he could understand she was there for him, waiting to help him, ready to lift him out of his despair and move onwards in their new life together.

  She had to make contact; it was the only way, even if it risked spoiling the surprise he had in store for the signora. Surely his little scheme had been forgotten in the all-consuming tragedy that had overtaken him, so really there was nothing to spoil. Perhaps the signora, his old and dear friend, didn’t know about his mother’s illness, perhaps this was another example of Gianpietro’s sensitivity towards those close to him, not wanting to burden them with his pain.

  * * *

  Sonia’s daily routine included dusting and tidying the master bedroom of Villa Brillante, the room where the three silver-framed photographs she had copied with her phone for Gianpietro were displayed. And every day she spent more and more time staring at the photographs as her level of concern over Gianpietro increased.

  After noticing Sonia’s time performing her bedroom chores was getting longer and longer, Connie watched her over several days before eventually attempting to raise the subject.

  “Is something the matter, Sonia?” she said, as she walked silently into the bedroom. The maid was standing motionless in front of the photographs and the question took her by surprise.

  “Signora!” she gasped, snapping out of her reverie in embarrassment.

  “You don’t seem yourself,” said Connie. “You keep staring at those photographs.”

  Sonia was having trouble working out Connie’s Italian, the words, heavily accented with American vowels, were difficult to follow, especially to an ear normally tuned to the local Castiglion Fiorentino dialect.

  “I am sorry, signora, I don’t understand.”

  Connie tried again, speaking slowly and simply, remembering her unconventional Italian tutor Alessandro Rossi’s instructions back in Rome. “If you can’t say it one way, you must find another. Think, Connie, think about the message you are trying to get across and reduce it to its simplest components.”

  “Tell me what it is about the photographs that you like so much. I think the one of Signor Silk with his daughter is very good, don’t you? It captures such a feeling of joy in both of them.”

  Sonia frowned at her. She had to seize the opportunity but she wasn’t sure the signora would understand.

  “When you were away in Usa, signora,” she began, the words spilling out in a rush, “I met your friend, Signor Gianpietro Tebaldi.”

  She paused, waiting, hoping the look of confusion on Connie’s face would turn into one of comprehension. It didn’t help that Sonia spoke fast in dialect and instead of sounding the individual letters of ‘USA’, she pronounced it in the Italian way as ‘oo-sah’. In the flurry of other words, Connie didn’t even recognise that her country had been mentioned.

  Connie sighed, irritated that once again the nuances of the language were eluding her. The other cleaner, Irena, was easier to understand and had often acted as interpreter when Connie was trying to get something across to Sonia. At that moment, Irena was elsewhere in the villa, but Henry, who never seemed to have any trouble talking to either woman, was conveniently seated outside on the bedroom’s large balcony, sipping coffee and catching up with the world news on his phone.

  “A moment, Sonia, let me fetch Signor Silk.”

  She left the maid standing awkwardly by the bed and walked over to the balcony doors.

  “Henry, could I interrupt you for a moment?”

  “For as many moments as you like,” grinned Henry, holding out his arms.

  She raised her eyes. “You actors are all the same. Incorrigible.”

  “And that’s based on your experiences with how many?”

  “Henry!”

  He blew her a kiss. “What can I do for you, m’lady.”

  “It’s Sonia, the maid. She seems distressed. But her accent is so strong I can’t make much sense of what she’s saying. Would you mind talking to her?”

  “My pleasure,” said Henry. He dropped his phone on the table and stood up, his expression turning serious. “You know, I keep thinking about Trisha. It’s so worrying; I wish there was something we could do. It’s been about ten days now since she disappeared; nearly a week since Jennifer called with the news. I wonder what progress they are making.”

  “Jennifer will be in touch as soon as she has some news,” said Connie. “Let’s just hope it’s good news.”

  She took his hand and led him into the bedroom.

  “Ciao, Sonia,” said Henry. “Tutto bene?”

  Sonia’s eyes drifted up from the spot on the floor she’d been focussing on. Apart from Gianpietro, Henry Silk was the most handsome and intelligent man she’d ever met. And he was a film star. She always felt a strong flutter of nerves in his presence.

  She took a deep breath and launched into a whirlwind of dialect. Henry immediately put up his hands and grinned at her. “Lentamente, Sonia. Slowly. Please, allow for me being a stupid foreigner.”

  Sonia bit her bottom lip and smiled coyly.

  “I apologise, signore. I’ll start again.” She paused to gather her thoughts, but they still emerged as a torrent once she started speaking.

  “When you and the signora were in America a couple of months ago, I met one of the signora’s close friends near to where I live. He was lost and happened to be in the street. And he was so brave. He faced up to Irena’s brute of a husband, taught him a lesson and the pig has been a lamb ever since. Irena can’t believe the change in him. He hasn’t hit her once and he’s actually helping her around the house. You’d never—”

  “The signora’s friend?” interrupted Henry as gently as he could.

  “Sorry, signore, yes. He told me he’d been looking for the villa but couldn’t remember the way since it was some time since he’d been here. He was amazed to find that I worked here. He was such a gentleman; we hit it off straight away. After he’d, er, helped Irena with her husband, I took him to a bar in the town and we had a long chat. Then the following evening he took me out to dinner in Arezzo.”

  “How nice for you, Sonia. So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that he was called away at the end of the evening, just … er yes.” She paused, blushing.

  “His mother had been taken ill and he needed to get back to Rome. He sent me flowers and chocolates afterwards, but then he was called away to America and I haven’t heard from him since. I’m really worried about his mother and whether he’s being driven crazy with grief. But I have no address or number for him. I was wondering if the signora would mind contacting him for me.”

  Henry repeated the gist of what Sonia had said to Connie, adding quietly that it sounded like a con.

  “Did she give a name?” asked Connie.

  “What’s his name, Sonia? The signora has many friends, especially in Rome.”

  “Sorry, signore, of course she does. I apologise for being a bother. His name is Gianpietro Tebaldi. He’s an art dealer the signora has been friends with for about twenty years, I think he said.”

  She stopped, a nervous smile of anticipation on her lips as she waited for Connie to react with pleasure to the name.

  “Mean anything to you?” said Henry after repeating the name to Connie.

  Connie frowned. “Never heard of him. I think I know just about every reputable art dealer in Rome, and a few that aren’t so reputable. But that name means nothing.”

  Henry turned to Sonia. “Gianpietro Tebaldi? I heard it correctly?”

  “Yes, signore.” Sonia’s face was still fixed with a nervous smile.

  Alarmed that a stranger with knowledge of Connie and Villa Brillante appeared to be propositioning one of the staff for information, Henry needed to find out more.

  He tried to sound as reassuring as possible, not wanting the girl to run from the room in tears.
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  “Maybe he uses a different name professionally, Sonia. Dealers sometimes do that when they are rubbing shoulders with rich people if their deals are confidential.”

  Sonia nodded, her face now serious as she swallowed the story. “Yes. I know he has some very important clients.”

  “Exactly,” said Henry.

  Connie touched his arm. “Ask her why she’s so interested in the photos, the ones over there on the drawers.”

  “Sonia, the signora tells me you like to look at the photographs over there. Any particular reason for that? Apart from the fact that I’m in most of them.”

  He grinned mischievously and winked at her.

  Sonia giggled, thrilled to be having a real conversation with the famous Henry Silk. She couldn’t wait to tell her mamma how the actor had been teasing her.

  She looked down, still uncertain about spoiling Gianpietro’s little game.

  “It was meant to be a surprise, signore. Gianpietro said that he’d been planning to play a trick on the signora for some time and that she’d find it very funny.”

  “What kind of trick?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. It was to do with photographs and changing them on the computer. I didn’t really understand what he was saying; I don’t know much about computers. He said he wanted to get a photograph of the signora, and perhaps one of you and the young signorina—”

  “Jennifer?” interrupted Henry, all trace of levity now absence from his voice. “Did he know her name?”

  “I … I don’t know, signore. He didn’t say her name. He asked if there were any new photographs from the last time he’d been here and I told him there was one of you, signore, with … your daughter.” Her voice trailed away as she realised she might have made a mistake.

  She pouted, needing to justify her actions. “He said he would make something on the computer and give it to the signora as a surprise,” she said, her tone defensive. “He said it would be very funny.”

  Henry frowned. “Make something on the computer?” he repeated. “He would need copies to do that. Did he ask you to do anything, Sonia?”

  Sonia was no longer certain about Henry’s tone. How badly had she screwed up?

  Connie picked up on her change in expression and touched Henry’s arm. “Gently, sweetheart,” she said, quietly.

  “Er, yes, he did,” continued Sonia. “He told me he remembered that the last time he was here in the villa, he had seen some of the photographs and that those and the new one of you with the signorina were just the ones he needed for his trick. He showed me how to make copies of them on my phone.”

  “And did you do that?”

  Sonia nodded, diverting her eyes, fully aware now that she had done something wrong.

  Henry walked over to the drawers and beckoned for her to follow.

  “Which ones did you copy, Sonia? Could you show me, please?”

  She pointed. “There were three, signore.”

  “Do you know what he did with them?”

  “He did something to put them on his phone, said they were exactly what he was looking for.”

  “Sonia, the signora isn’t sure she knows which of her friends this man is. Could you describe him for me?”

  Sonia looked blankly at him.

  “OK,” said Henry. “Was he as tall as I am? Taller? Shorter? How old was he?”

  “A bit shorter, signore, and he was, I think, about forty.”

  “Was he fat, thin? What was his hair like?”

  “He was slim, signore, and very strong. He had short black hair, slightly wavy.”

  “Good looking? Roman nose or a hooked one from the south.”

  “He looked like a Roman, but not the aristocratic type. His features were … gentle. Kind and considerate.”

  Henry turned to Connie. “Are you getting the gist of this?”

  Connie nodded. “What do you think he was after?”

  “Doesn’t sound like he was casing the joint,” replied Henry, pulling a face. “You know, planning a burglary or something.”

  “Good luck with that,” said Connie, dismissively.

  “Exactly. No, I think he was after a photo of Jennifer. This is worrying. I wonder if it’s anything to do with the Cambronis and Jennifer’s time in the gallery.”

  Connie’s eyes widened. “Retribution? That’s a bit of a leap, don’t you think? Perhaps he was a journalist who’s got a sniff of some information and is trying to follow it up. What better way than to befriend someone on the staff. After all, he didn’t seem to know about Jennifer until this gullible girl told him, and he possibly didn’t even know her name. I think he was a journalist.”

  “You’re probably right,” sighed Henry, “but I think we should try to get more on him.”

  He turned back to Sonia but before he could continue, he was interrupted by a quiet cough from the direction of the door from the corridor. They looked around and saw Irena standing there.

  “Excuse me, signora,” she said, looking flustered. “I was looking for Sonia. There’s something I need her to do. Is everything all right?” As Sonia’s immediate boss, she took Connie and Henry’s welfare and Sonia’s behaviour as her personal responsibility.

  Henry asked Irena about Gianpietro Tebaldi and the incident with her husband.

  “He was amazing, signore, like something in a film. When he came into my apartment, he was more or less dragging Carlo, then he spun him round ever so fast and kicked him, but I couldn’t follow his arms and legs moving. They were just a blur.”

  “Could you describe him, Irena?” asked Connie. She had followed this part of the conversation since Irena had the ability to keep it in standard Italian with no dialect.

  “I could, signora, yes, but I think I can do better than that. With all the noise and threats from Carlo, the usual bunch of nosy neighbours came out to watch and comment. Some had phones and they later told me that when Gianpietro came out of the apartment to look after Sonia, they took some pictures of him as he told them to go home.”

  “Excellent,” said Henry. “I think with those photographs the signora will be able to identify which of her friends it is. Irena, do you think if we went now to where you live, some of your neighbours would be there, the ones who took the photos?”

  “Definitely, signore. I know for certain that Paola Bonavventura will be at home. She has five children, all small, and her mother lives in the south. She has no time to go out to work.”

  “Ok, let’s go. Coming Connie?”

  Connie shook her head and diverted her eyes towards Sonia, who was looking disconsolate.

  “I think I’d better struggle on with this one. She’s been conned and needs to be let down gently. It needs a woman’s touch.”

  * * *

  An hour after Henry Silk left Villa Brillante with Irena, he was back and running up the villa’s main stairs to where Connie was now sitting with a morose Sonia on the bedroom balcony.

  “Did you get them?” asked Connie, looking up.

  Henry nodded. “Yes. Transferred them to my phone. Irena was in her element, like she was accompanying royalty. But before we got there, I reminded her of our agreement of keeping quiet about both of us and of how generously she was paid as part of that agreement.”

  “Well done. Our privacy is so important. Anyway, what do we do now? I know I won’t recognise the man in the photos you have, which will shatter our young maid’s dreams. I’ve been preparing her for the possibility, but she’s still clinging on to her hopes.”

  Henry shrugged. “No idea. Your call. Me, I’d tell her. No point in delaying it. The man was after something, he used her, got what he wanted and then buggered off.”

  “Yes, the tactic of using an ailing mother was clearly all prepared. I wonder why. Our friend here was obviously ready to let him have his evil way. I wonder why he backed off.”

  Henry pulled another sceptical face. “Perhaps he has certain standards. She’s no oil painting.”

  “Henry!”


  “Well, she’s not. I don’t know. Perhaps he’s gay. Anyway, take a look at the photos, then it’s up to you what you tell her.”

  He pulled his phone from his pocket and called up the images he’d obtained from three of Irena’s neighbours.

  “They’ll take some playing with on the computer since he’s quite far away, but a couple are full face. Should be enough to work on.”

  Connie kept her face expressionless while she scrutinised the images.

  “Never seen him before,” she said, as she handed the phone back to Henry. She puckered her lips. “OK, off you go and play on the computer. I’ll fetch the Kleenex.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Connie had given both Sonia and Irena the rest of the day off. Irena, older and wiser, insisted to Connie that she’d had her doubts about Tebaldi in spite of how he’d improved her life for her. She also told Connie she certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone of developments, particularly her husband. She wanted him to remain in fear for the rest of his miserable life.

  Just to be sure of her ground, Connie had called some of her art dealer contacts in Rome and floated the name of Gianpietro Tebaldi. No one had heard of him. One of her closer contacts had gone further by checking in a catalogue of dealers nationwide, with the same result. If the name was real, he wasn’t in the art business.

  After sending the maids on their way, Connie sought out Henry in the downstairs office. He looked up as she opened the door and patted the seat next to him.

  “Perfect timing, sweetheart. The facial details have come up better than I thought. Come take a look.”

  They both sat in front of the large, high-resolution monitor staring at the screen.

  “You know,” said Henry, “there’s something about that face. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s ringing all sorts of bells.”

  “Same here,” agreed Connie. “Do you think he’s a serious threat?”