by Joan Smith
That one was unmistakably a bullet. It came through the side window and parted Nick's hair, before leaving by my window. If he hadn't ducked and pulled me down, one of us would have gotten a bullet through the head. We crouched on the floor and exchanged a terrified look.
“Are you all right?” he asked, and pulled off his dark glasses, which had come askew.
I did a swift mental inventory of my body. Nothing hurt except my toes, which bore a heavy load in the crouching position we were in. “I don't seem to be bleeding. Are you okay?"
“Other than being paralyzed by fear—what's that?” There was another bullet shot, this one on the fender.
“He's trying to shoot out your tires so we can't drive!"
“Christ! We've got to get out of here."
“Don't sit up!"
“Don't worry. I won't."
His solution was to drive from the floor, his eyes well below window level. Without lifting his head, Nick stepped on the gas and we drove through the intersection, fortunately without hitting any children or buildings.
Once safely beyond the intersection, he sat up and drove as fast as the traffic allowed, with me urging him on to go faster. I was certainly hysterical. The maniacal laughter issuing from my gullet sounded like the wail of a banshee.
Nick was white as a ghost, and rigid, and angry. The Jag didn't follow us.
“Where are we?” he asked—one of the season's most useless questions.
“Roma, the last I heard."
After straggling through alleys for a quarter of an hour, we hit a street Nick recognized and from there we went directly to his house. As the panic subsided, we tried to make sense of it.
“Bert was right. The plan is for Boisvert to kill me,” Nick said in a high, disbelieving voice. “My God—kill me. That's why they've been skulking around the exhibition."
“Cheerful thought, but that wasn't Boisvert."
“It was his henchman. Had to be. I don't have any enemies. Sorry, Lana. I shouldn't have tried to keep you here. I had no idea Boisvert played this rough. Oh, I knew he was no saint, but I never imagined he'd turned into a full-fledged criminal. The lure of gold ... It might be the safest thing for you and Nancy to take a bus to Naples. I'm not sure this car is safe."
We looked at the twin bullet holes, one in either window. The wind made a light whistling sound as it entered. “Even without hitmen shooting at it, this car is a lethal weapon. I guess you'll be going to the police, huh?” I asked.
“I really should,” he said doubtfully. “Did you happen to get that license number?"
To my shame, I couldn't even tell you its color. “No."
“Neither did I. But the car was a Jag—wasn't it?"
“How would I know?"
“It looked like a Jag—sort of."
“We could identify the man. At least I could."
“But then you'd have to stay in Rome,” he said with a slyly flirtatious smile. His hand reached across the seat and squeezed mine. “Yes, I really must report this attack."
CHAPTER 6
But first he wanted to talk it over with Bert and Nancy. We went into the villa on legs that wobbled like Jell-O.
Bert was nursing a Coke, and Nancy was looking at some of Nick's art books. “We made it home in one piece,” Bert assured us.
“We nearly didn't,” Nick told him, and related the story. Bert listened, as impassive as a cigar store Indian. You'd think his best friend was shot at every day of the week. Only his eyes betrayed any excitement, and told me this act was to make him look debonair in front of Nancy. Nancy, of course, was all gasps and sympathy.
“I warned you Boisvert'd be after you,” Bert said, shaking his head. “You'll have to lay low awhile, Nick."
“He's going to the police,” I said firmly.
“Of course, but they're not going to get ahold of Boisvert in one day,” Bert pointed out. “Boisvert knows where Nick lives. You're a sitting duck, my man. Might not be a bad idea for you to go to a hotel."
“But which hotel? Where is Boisvert staying?” Nick asked, though chasing Boisvert wasn't what Bert meant. Nick closed his eyes, as though waiting for a vision. “Where they always turn up is at my exhibition."
“Then that's where you should have the police go,” I suggested, as no one seemed to be talking about police.
“I doubt if they'll go back there now, after shooting at you,” Nancy said. “They'll know the cops'll be waiting for them."
Nick nodded. “That's the trouble once you call in police. They're all over, scaring people away. I think Bert and I can handle this."
I gave him a look suggesting that they couldn't handle an angry kitten.
“Wish I could help you,” Bert said. “But with Luigi lurking in the grass to attack me..."
“Why would he have gone looking for you this afternoon, after he beat you up this morning?” Nancy asked.
“Beating guys up is his hobby. The man's an animal,” Bert said with an involuntary shudder that revealed his real fear.
Nick had gone back to his interrupted vision while we talked. He now opened his eyes and spoke. “What we have to do is smoke Boisvert out."
A nervous spasm shook my insides. “How?” I asked warily.
"Con brio."
“With cheese?” Nancy asked, looking quite lost.
“And onions."
“You've lost me,” I admitted.
“I should be so lucky,” Nick said, but his lambent smile removed the sting. “Lingini was talking to that Frenchman who shot at us."
“Maybe if you talked to her, she'd know where he's staying,” I said. “But you don't want to make it too obvious, in case she's working with them. She did ask Bert for one of your old paintings."
“Want me to give her a call?” Bert asked.
“It might be worth a shot,” Nick replied.
“Hey, I've got a better idea!” Bert exclaimed. “Why don't I drop in on her unexpectedly? Maybe she'll have company—know what I mean? The Frenchie. Maybe even Boisvert. I'd recognize him, but he has no way of knowing that."
Nancy wasn't happy with this idea. “You said Lingini isn't mixed up in it, Bert."
“She might know something,” Bert said. “It's worth a shot. Only take thirty minutes. And there's no way Luigi'll be waiting for me at a contessa's place. I wouldn't mind getting a look at her digs."
“Her butler won't even let you in the door,” Nancy sniffed.
“Watch and learn,” Bert said. “I'll phone first for an appointment."
We didn't watch, or even listen, since the only phone was in the studio. He was back in minutes. “She was falling all over me,” he said, with a “so there” look at Nancy. “Invited me to Villa Lingini—it's up in the Pincian Hill somewhere. Can I borrow your wheels, Nick? The scooter?"
“Take the car if you like."
“Not a good idea with Boisvert's henchman out gunning for you. Besides, if Luigi spots me, it's easier to get away on a scooter. You can shoehorn that little sucker through traffic like anything."
“Why don't you get your own car, Bert? It's still at your apartment,” Nancy suggested.
“It's broken down. The rad's shot, I think. I'll have to have it fixed. The student I'm renting my apartment to wants the parking space."
I already knew Bert wasn't doing well financially from the rat's nest he had lived in, but if he couldn't even afford to get his car repaired, he must really be suffering.
“What are you going to say to Lingini?” I asked. With Bert, it's a good idea to check these things.
“I'll tell her Nick has a few of his old expressionist paintings in storage. Hasn't managed to unearth them yet, but is she still interested? Then I'll drop a hint that a French gent has been asking after them as well. See if she flinches. Maybe she'll crop out with a name."
If the Contessa was involved, it wasn't likely she'd blurt out any names and addresses, but if she thought her henchmen were trying to double-cross her and get the painting
s themselves—well, it was worth a try.
“Try the name Boisvert on her,” Nick suggested with an expression that would have done Machiavelli justice.
“And if she bites?"
“Just note her reaction."
“You guys are out of it,” Nancy said grandly. “What you do is lurk around outside when you leave. Then if she runs out to her car, you follow her. Listening at keyholes to hear if she phones somebody is good, too, but that'd be hard at a villa, with servants and everything."
Bert beamed proudly. “Has this girl got brains, or what?"
“I read Nancy Drew when I was a kid,” Nancy explained. “Hey! More synchronicity—we have the same name."
There seemed no sane comment to make on this.
Bert put on the black driving helmet and left, looking like Darth Vadar in mufti. Over his shoulder he called, “You gals'll still be here when I get back?"
We agreed to wait another half hour. Leaving before the mystery was solved seemed less exigent now that we were safely back in Nick's villa.
“We'll do that sightseeing this afternoon,” Nick said.
Sightseeing in a broken-down car that was a target for bullets, with a semi-blind driver besides, had very limited appeal.
“We're missing the Naples tour,” I said, but uncertainly.
“We can case Naples on our way through to Salerno,” Nancy suggested. She hadn't used words like “case” before we met up with Bert.
“Yes. Are you going to call the police now, Nick?"
“What do you say we have some cappuccino on the terrace while we wait for Bert to come back?” he answered. “Maybe we'll know by then whether the Contessa is involved.” And if she was, he'd say there was no point trying to get the police to help a bunch of Americans catch one of their own contessas. “I'll make it. You two go on out and catch some sun."
Nancy and I went out. One side of the terrace got the afternoon sun, but we decided to sit on the shady side, where a view of Rome spread out below us. The terra-cotta rooftops gleamed in the heat. Striations rippled up from them, turning the air wavy. Traffic had slowed noticeably. It was siesta time in Rome.
Nancy said, “What we were talking about in there, Lana—about Conan still looking for Bert when he'd already beat him up—it is kind of strange, isn't it?"
“It's his hobby."
“That's ridiculous. And there's no denying Bert has a few twists in him. Nick thought Bert must have taken those expressionist paintings. Bert runs tame here. He could have taken them."
“That has nothing to do with Conan beating him. That business is over a woman—Maria—Conan's friend."
“Yes,” she said doubtfully, “but maybe Conan's involved somehow, too. I was thinking maybe Boisvert got in touch with Bert, and asked him for the expressionist paintings. Bert wouldn't necessarily say no to a little illegal business on the side. He thought those early paintings were practically worthless. He's obviously having trouble making ends meet. That apartment! And his car doesn't work."
The image of Bert's hovel of an apartment wafted through my mind. I remembered the notice over his sink saying that anyone can become a millionaire. “That still doesn't tie Conan and Boisvert together. Why are you suddenly putting Bert under a microscope? Not that he doesn't belong there, but I thought you liked him. Did he say something while we were gone?"
“Not exactly. What he said was he hoped Nick didn't get the idea he'd double-crossed him. He said he stood to make a lot more as Nick's agent than he'd ever get selling a few of his older paintings. Why did he say that? It was almost as if he was denying something nobody had accused him of. It just made me wonder. Bert's very naive, in a way. He called our attention to his Gucci watch being a knockoff before anyone even noticed it. I mean, he cuts the ground out from under his own feet. If he was working with Boisvert, he could get a lot more than fifteen percent. Probably fifty."
Her concern made me wonder, too. It was exactly the sort of chiseling, sneaky larceny Bert was capable of. When Nick brought out the cappuccino, I asked idly, “Does Boisvert know Bert's your agent now? Is it the proper thing to notify your old agent when you change?"
“I dropped him a line. Bert said I should notify him officially. I did have a written contract with the guy, but either of us could end it at any time. I sent Boisvert a registered letter. Why are you asking?"
“I just wondered."
Nick took his cup and leaned back in a lounge chair, sipping his coffee while he thought. “You think Bert's already sold the paintings that disappeared from my studio?"
“Oh no!” we exclaimed in unison.
Nick examined us, one by one, with a knowing eye. “I don't think so either. If Bert had sold my old stuff, Boisvert wouldn't have sent his man to check out my studio. I figure Boisvert's man got the paintings all right. Bert didn't know they were worth anything till yesterday, when the Contessa tipped him off. And from that point on, he didn't have a chance at them. We were together. I trust Bert implicitly. We're friends, but I'm just mentioning this as you apparently have some doubts."
We made unconvincing sounds of objection, and Nick continued. “What concerns me more is that I'm expendable. Better off dead, as far as Boisvert is concerned. Quite apart from the money involved, Boisvert's reputation would be shot if this ever came out, and art is his life."
Nancy and I exchanged a relieved look. Of course. If Bert had sold Boisvert all of Nick's early works, they wouldn't have had to break in. Unless they thought Bert was holding some back ... Damn, there was no end to it.
Bert had seemed very anxious to see Lingini. He was the one who'd suggested going to see her. I'd first mentioned her name, but he'd offered to phone—then go in person. Maybe because he was afraid we'd go and listen to his phone conversation? Yesterday he said she definitely wasn't involved. When Bert got back, I meant to have a go at him. His face used to turn bright red when he lied. It's hard to control that kind of involuntary reaction. I thought I'd know if he was lying.
During the next half hour we gave Nancy a blow-by-blow description of our morning, and took her to see the bullet holes in the car. “My God, how come you weren't killed, Nick? They're right where your head was.” There was one through my side window, too, but maybe she didn't see it.
“Free air-conditioning. A good thing it wasn't the windshield or I'd have to get it fixed,” was Nick's comment.
We had another cappuccino, and dawdled over it till four. Bert had been gone over an hour. Half an hour was what he thought it would take. Edginess turned to apprehension as we sat, avoiding each other's eyes. In my mind Bert, possible traitor, had become Bert, possible victim—again.
“Maybe one of us should just give Lingini a call and see if Bert got there all right,” I suggested idly, not wanting to upset Nancy.
She was already upset. “Conan might have waylaid him."
“We don't speak Italian, Nick,” I pointed out.
“The Contessa's a linguist. She speaks English, as well as German and French, and of course Italian."
“Why don't you want to phone her?"
“It might be better if you call—tell her you're a friend of Bert's."
“You help me find her number in the phone book,” I said.
Nancy stayed on the terrace when Nick followed me into the house. “Why don't you really want to speak to her?” I asked.
“Because if what you and Nancy think is right, that Bert's double-crossing me, I'm not supposed to know anything about it. Maybe I'm not even supposed to know he's seeing her today. Let's just keep it that way for the time being."
After I thought about it for a minute, I said, “It sounds as if you're trying to protect Bert, even if he's double-crossing you."
“I don't think he is. Bert's always been a loyal friend to me. Good friends are hard to find. It has nothing to do with having things in common really. A friend is someone whose company you enjoy. From the minute I pulled Bert out of the drink and he said, ‘Thanks, old buddy,’ I felt s
ympatico with him. That night we got drunk together, and he told me all about himself. I told him my life story, too. We felt very sorry for ourselves, and each other."
“He's always been easy to talk to."
“And confide in. I never feel Bert's looking down his nose at me. In fact, he looks up a little more than I'm comfortable with. Maybe I enjoy that, too. He's always here to help me, and I help him. After you've helped someone, there's a kind of bonding. I guess Bert has become the brother I never had. He means that much to me, anyway."
“And you trust him.” I nodded.
“If he did anything slightly illegal, he only intended to chisel a few bucks from paintings that he thought weren't worth much. I don't believe he even did that. Bert confesses things—you know? I don't want to get the poor guy shot. And if Lingini and Boisvert are working together, and they get the idea Bert's there fishing for information on my behalf—well ... those were real bullets that were whistling through my car a few hours ago."
I gulped. “Gosh!"
He grinned. “You English teachers are so articulate."
He dialed the phone, handed me the receiver, and stuck his head beside mine to overhear the conversation. As soon as I spoke English, the man who answered put me right through to Lingini. I heard the tinkling of her gold bracelets before she spoke. She spoke perfect English, with an English accent.
I identified myself as an American friend of Bert Garr. “Oh, are you one of the ladies who was with him at the gallery yesterday?” she asked.
“Yes, he was supposed to meet me half an hour ago at my hotel.” I decided to give the impression that's where I was calling from. “He said he was going to see you—something about a painting. Since he's so late, I just wondered if he was still there."
“No, he left half an hour ago,” she said.
Nick covered the mouthpiece and whispered in my ear. “Ask her if she liked the painting."
“Did you like the painting?” I asked, frowning at Nick. This was his way of confirming that Bert wasn't selling the paintings behind his back.
“Painting? Oh he didn't have it with him. He thinks he can get me one. I look forward to seeing it. Will you be with Mr. Garr this evening?"