by Joan Smith
Nick's beautiful, sensitive face had turned to stone, in which his black eyes blazed. “Oh no,” he said in a voice of silken menace, “the thing to do is find Boisvert."
“But he's on holiday. Did his wife say where?” Nancy asked.
“No, but that would be because I made the mistake of leaving my name. If he's selling my stuff under a phony name, he must be getting very nervous. This is the latest issue of Art World. I haven't heard of Frageau before. Now that my alter ego is becoming known, Boisvert must be eager to fine me."
“Maybe that's who was in your kitchen yesterday!” Nancy exclaimed. “Was he a small, dark man?"
“No, he was a big, gray-haired guy, with a honker like Charles de Gaulle,” Bert said. “He's in some of those pictures you were showing the girls, isn't he, Nick?"
Nancy and I had been reduced to “girls” on a couple of occasions. I meant to take them to task for it, but this didn't seem the moment. We sorted through the pictures, and Nick pointed Boisvert out to us. I had never seen him before, but I remembered hearing French at the Quattrocento yesterday afternoon. “That contessa—she was speaking French to a dark-haired, small man,” I mentioned. “And she was interested in one of Nick's early works."
Nick looked interested. “He could be Boisvert's henchman."
“The Contessa wouldn't be mixed up in anything like that,” Bert said. “She's top drawer."
“I'm not saying she's mixed up in it,” I countered. “I'm just pointing out there was a Frenchman at the exhibition. Though now that you mention it, it is kind of funny that Lingini was asking for one of Nick's early works."
“Naah,” Bert said dismissively. “I think I brought the subject up myself. She was talking about his tempura method, and I said he used to use acrylics. She said she'd like to get hold of one—something like that."
“That's tempera, Bert,” Nancy said.
“Yeah, right. Imagine the Contessa not knowing that. I could hardly keep a straight face when she said it. But mainly she's interested in the gray picture with the mountains and the old house."
“Maybe we should all go back to the exhibition at the Quattrocento,” I suggested, looking at Nick.
“It's some place to start,” he agreed with an approving smile that warmed the cockles of my heart. “How about you, Bert? You'll stay here?"
“Alone?"
Nancy looked at us, then she looked at Bert. Compassion won. “I'll stay with you, Bert,” she said.
He measured up Nancy's shoulders and, deciding she was no match for Conan, opted to go with me and Nick. “We better all stick together."
We went, together, in the Alfa-Romeo to the Quattrocento Hotel. I was wrong about the car not having any hubcaps. There must have been one on one of the back wheels, because I heard a louder than usual clanging sound behind us, and saw a chrome circle rolling down the road behind us.
CHAPTER 5
Morning isn't the busiest time for art exhibitions at home, but in Rome, where heat closes the city down for the afternoon, there was a small crowd looking around the gallery. Alberto, the Italian student manning the door, was looking dapper in a blue suit. He had a smattering of various languages, but English wasn't his best tongue, so Nick spoke to him and Bert translated for us.
Nick asked Alberto if he had seen a small, swarthy Frenchman hanging around that morning. He hadn't. Had he seen a French guy that looked like Charles de Gaulle? Not that day, but late yesterday afternoon ... perhaps the tall gentleman with the large nose spoke French. He could not be certain—so many guests—but there was a noticeable resemblance to de Gaulle. Had he left a name, a hotel address? No, he had made only a brief visit, looking for a friend. Did the friend have a name? Very likely, but the man had not mentioned it. But really, Alberto was almost positive now that the tall man had spoken French.
Nick's eyes blazed with the thrill of the chase. “Boisvert's in town,” he told us, with a menacing and infinitely delighted grin. “The game's afoot, ladies."
“He won't be easy to find in a city this size,” I pointed out.
“He'll come back to the gallery eventually."
“Has to. Scene of the crime,” Bert explained. “Not that I mean he stole anything here...” Bert never could deny himself a cliché.
“Are you going to hang out here, then?” I asked. The paintings were lovely, Nick was lovelier, but neither was ravishing enough to entice me to sit in a hotel for very long, especially when Naples was waiting, prepaid.
“We'll have lunch here, and I'll check back with Alberto after. If any Frenchmen show up, he'll come and tell me in the dining room. The Quattrocento is famous for its cuisine,” Nick promised.
“It's not even noon yet."
“I hate watches,” Nick scowled. “What's this weird obsession with time?” It was the voice of a man who had never had a nine-to-five job, lucky devil. “We'll have a drink first. In Rome, we make a ritual of the midday meal and drink lots of wine with it."
“That would explain a great deal,” I said, thinking of all the terrible drivers in Rome, and idly of Bert's problem, and Luigi's solution for that matter. Beating up poor Bert wouldn't solve anything.
We agreed to stay. The kitchen's fame, if indeed it was famous, was well deserved. The Castelli white wine slipped effortlessly down the throat. It was mellow in taste, but powerful in effect. My risotto di scampi was to die for. Fresh scampi, and they didn't cut it into slivers. There were mouth-filling, juicy chunks flavored with bay leaves, garlic, olive oil, and wine. The zabaione I had for dessert was runny, but delicious. After the feast, I didn't really care if I never got to Naples. The subject did come up over our cappuccino, however.
“You won't want to leave town at this time, Nick,” I said. “Nancy and I will take a bus or train and go on to Naples."
Bert looked at me as though I were insane. “You're not leaving!"
Nancy was shifting uncomfortably, which told me she had been scheming behind my back. “That was the plan,” I reminded them both.
“But don't you want to help Nick?” Nancy asked.
Nick lifted his eyebrows and looked adorably helpless.
“I suppose we could rejoin the tour at Salerno,” I said hesitantly.
“I'll drive you,” Nick eagerly interjected. “It'll be more comfortable than the public bus."
“A donkey cart would be more comfortable than the way you drive,” I pointed out.
“I'll get my car tuned up. We haven't had time for our sightseeing. We were going to take you to the Sound and Light show at the Forum. I'm sure to get this business straightened out with Boisvert today, and we'll have tomorrow..."
“Boisvert may not show up for days. He may not show up at all. You don't even know for sure if he's here.” While the words were leaving my mouth, Alberto came pelting into the dining room.
“Francese!” he exclaimed. A Frenchman was in the gallery, looking all around. Not the de Gaulle francese, but the other one.
“Let's go!” Bert said, and flicked his fingers for the bill, which he promptly handed to Nick.
“Wouldn't it be wiser to follow him, and see if he leads us to Boisvert?” Nancy suggested.
“Why don't we take a quick peek and see if it's the same man who was talking to Lingini yesterday?” I suggested. “If it is, if he's come back, I mean—well it might mean something."
“I'll go with you and see if he's the guy from the kitchen,” Nancy added. “If he is, that'll clinch it."
No one objected, so while Nick paid the bill, Nancy and I went to the doorway and peeked in from behind the urns of flowers, in case he recognized us. It looked like the same man who had been with Lingini, and now that I suspected his interest in art was criminal, I thought he looked less genteel than before. His nose was slightly twisted to one side, and he had shifty eyes. It seemed suspicious that he kept a closer watch on the doorway than the pictures. “I can't be positive, but I think he's the man from the kitchen,” Nancy said.
“I'm quite
positive he's Lingini's friend."
I reported this back to Nick. He decided we would wait in the lobby till the man left, and follow him. Bert bought a newspaper, which we separated to allow all four of us to hide behind a section while we plotted and talked. Our conversation was carried on in whispers behind our newspaper wall.
“Have you figured out what's going down here, Nick?” Bert asked out of the side of his mouth like a gangster. “Boisvert's found out somehow where you live."
“I'm in the phone book."
“That could be how he found out. Then he sent his henchman to your place to steal the old pictures. They're worth a fortune as Frageaus. I knew I didn't have them. They were always in your studio. The guy got them, and when we came home, we caught him off guard. Nance said he came into the kitchen right after we left. That means he was already in the house. He must have been hiding in your pantry. He heard us say we were going to have a drink, and spiked something. Well, except for your wine cellar, gin and Campari are all you keep. He probably spiked them both. Then when we were all in dreamland, he took the pictures and vamoosed."
“Did Boisvert know you were coming to Italy when you left Paris, Nick?” I asked.
“Sure, I told him. I even wrote to him a couple of times. But I don't see how he hopes to get away with this. He can't expect me to sit still while my pictures are sold and published in art magazines with some other guy's name on them."
“I'll bet they sold for plenty, too,” Nancy added. “I mean, Georges St. Felix—he probably paid thousands for his."
“Whoever buys the ones they stole from Nick will pay a hell of a lot more,” Bert said. “Frageau's supposed to be dead, and that'll shoot the price through the ceiling. Supply and demand,” he explained, and unfortunately added, “Supply-side economics. He must have some plan to keep you quiet, Nick."
While the rest of us digested this, Bert continued blandly, “Dead men tell no tales. He came here to kill you. Must be some reason he keeps hanging around the gallery. Or possibly he'll try to talk you into going along with the scam for a cut."
“He knows where I live,” Nick pointed out. “He hasn't contacted me. And why should I bother painting Frageaus when my Hansens sell for more?"
“Right, looks like stiff city for you, my friend."
Nick's eyes glazed in a kind of emotional paralysis.
“Bert, for heaven's sake!” I scolded.
“Wake up and smell the cappuccino, Lana,” was his bored reply. “The guy's already killed once. This Frageau dude—he's history, right? Boisvert needed a stooge to pose as the artist, so he offed some guy named Frageau."
I considered this unlikely hypothesis a moment, and looked to Nick for his opinion. “Could be,” Nick said doubtfully. “Or he could have just checked out the morgue and claimed an unidentified body when he needed a dead artist."
This, while reprehensible, was at least not murder. “That's probably what he did,” I decided.
Bert's paper suddenly rustled to attention. “Is he coming?” I whispered.
“No, it's Luigi,” Nick said.
“Who?"
“Conan."
I peered and saw a giant striding through the lobby toward the gallery. It seemed appropriate that he had two names. He was too big for just one. He had shoulders like the Parthenon, a big barrel chest, and was so muscle-bound that he walked like a robot. His hair was taffy blonde and no doubt he had cruel eyes behind those sinister black glasses.
“I'm out of here. I'm gone. Meet you back at your place, Nick,” Bert whispered.
As soon as Conan-Luigi went into the gallery, Bert got up, grabbed Nancy by the hand and they disappeared down the corridor.
“He's already beat Bert up once today. Why is he still after him?” I asked.
“Did the man's face look rational to you?"
“I didn't get much of a look at his face. With a body like that..."
“You're susceptible to muscles?” Nick asked with an amused smile. “Now that surprises me. I thought you'd be the type that goes for brainy weaklings. I was going to buy a pair of glasses."
“You can't help noticing a giant. I don't go for the Godzilla type myself."
“What type do you go for, Lana?"
“I don't go for types. I go for individuals."
“We're all of one type or another. Macho, tortured genius..."
“As a general type then, rich millionaires,” I said offhandedly.
“As opposed to poor millionaires. You did say you're an English teacher? There's a type for you."
The patter of hastening footsteps alerted us that someone was fleeing. As the floor wasn't trembling, I didn't think it was Conan. We looked over our papers and saw the Frenchman darting along, not toward the main door, but toward a side hall.
“He must be staying at this hotel. He isn't leaving,” I said.
“He might be,” Nick said. “He's going toward the side exit to the parking lot. He must have a car."
We waited till he was past us and then went out after him. He was talking to a uniformed hotel employee. “I bet he's asking for a taxi,” I said.
“I'll slip out another door and bring the car around. You watch which way he goes—try to hear what he tells the driver."
“Right. Wait—I don't speak Italian."
“Try to remember the sounds."
The first going awry of our plan was that the man didn't call a taxi. The hotel parking service brought a little black car to the door. The man got in, naturally without telling the attendant where he was going. He just zoomed away. Nick wasn't far behind him.
“He went that way,” I said, pointing to the left. “Driving a little black car."
“What kind? What make? Year?"
“Small, newish."
Nick gave me a defeated look. There were approximately fifty newish, small black cars in the river of automobiles that filled the road. But at least I knew which direction he was headed, so we could ignore the twenty-five of them going the other way. Nick took his Kamikaze pilot position at the wheel, neck craned into the windshield, white knuckles clenched on the wheel, and revved his car up to about a million miles an hour.
“You look in car windows as we pass. Tell me when you spot the Frenchman,” Nick said.
What I saw as we passed was mainly a sun-streaked blur, and that only when I got up courage to open my eyes. The street we were on was extremely busy. To get into less perilous traffic, I decided one small black car turning a corner contained a Frenchman. Nick squealed around the corner, but when we finally overtook the car, it proved to hold an elderly man and woman.
“It looks like we lost him,” I said, shaking my head to indicate sorrow, but I was relieved to still be alive after the death drive.
Nick pulled into a no-parking zone and stopped. “You could get a ticket here,” I pointed out.
“Oh, is that what the sign says?” he asked with only minimal interest.
“You're looking right at it!"
“I'm short-sighted. In the rush, I forgot to put on my glasses. I do have a pair.” He took a pair of tinted shades out of his pocket and put them on.
“You mean you couldn't even see in that traffic!"
“I can see big things, like cars. I'm not blind."
“You can't be far from it if you can't read that sign.” I wiped a film of nervous perspiration from my forehead and said, “Are those prescription sunglasses?” He nodded. “Good. Let's go home—slowly."
Nick put his head back on the headrest. I had the feeling he had closed his eyes. His relaxed voice suggested it. “I'm just trying to think where Boisvert might be. You know, if he ever mentioned any friends in Rome"
“Could you do this thinking in a parking zone?"
“Legal parking's very difficult here, especially in summer, but to satisfy you...” He pulled forward a few yards beyond the no-parking signs. He was now blocking a driveway. No one seemed to require the driveway at that moment, so I said nothing. The random thought o
ccurred to me that Nick must be vain, or he'd wear his glasses.
When a truck came down the driveway between two stores, Nick decided to move on. “We might as well go back to my place and regroup."
I gave up trying to follow our route, all the streets seemed the same, they were so busy. At one intersection, busier than most, Nick suddenly decided to run through a light that had just turned red. Brakes squealed. Fists shook out of windows. Curses rent the air, including my personal air space in the car.
“What the hell do you think you're doing!"
“Didn't you see him? That was him, in that Jag!” Nick shouted triumphantly.
I hadn't seen him, but as the Jag weaved through traffic at a dangerous speed, I assumed Nick was right. It was also clear that we had been spotted. The car was certainly trying to avoid us. We followed the darned black Jag through the maelstrom of city traffic to the edge of town—a harrowing adventure that threatened to cost me my sanity. When the streets narrowed to alleys and the pavement to very rough cobblestone, the car turned a corner into one of the alleys.
Nick followed. It was about a block ahead of us, and we didn't know which way it had turned, but we knew it had turned because it was suddenly no longer ahead of us. At the speed blind Nick was traveling, stopping at the next intersection was impossible, but he slowed down to a crawl to see if we could spot the car. That's when the bullets started whistling. They came from the right. I didn't realize they were bullets at first. There was a sharp, loud pinging sound on Nick's door, which I thought was a kid throwing a stone. This misconception was supported by the fact that there were some kids playing around an old moss-green, graffiti-decorated fountain in the shape of a turtle that was attached to the side of one of the buildings.
“Holy Christ!” Nick exclaimed. He threw his arm around my shoulders and pulled me down on the floor, shielding me with his lean body. I was in total confusion. This seemed an excessive reaction to a kid throwing a stone. Before I uttered any of the sarcastic speeches that popped to mind, there was another sharp sound.