by Joan Smith
“Then Lingini must be working with Boisvert,” I deduced. “I don't see how else she got involved. How could they have met up, him in Paris, her in Rome?"
We puzzled over it for a while. “Boisvert must have co-opted her,” Nick thought aloud. “She's obviously no stranger to France. She speaks beautiful French. He probably met her at some gallery in Paris. I wouldn't have thought he ran with her elite pack—he didn't in the old days. If her reputation has picked up an aroma since then, he might have learned about it and approached her."
“It's funny Boisvert is keeping such a low profile,” Bert said. “Alberto thinks he spotted him at the Quattrocento, but we're not even sure it was him. None of us have actually seen him, except Nancy. She thinks she saw him at the Risorgimento, but we couldn't find him. Maybe it was just some guy with a big nose. Maybe he's not even here, in Rome."
“Of course he's here!” Nancy exclaimed. “I recognized him from the picture. It was certainly him. All the other suspects turned up at the Risorgimento. It wasn't just coincidence that Claude was there, and Lingini came in, looking for a light."
“He's here, engineering the whole thing,” Nick said. “He's just being careful to keep out of my way. And of course he's arranging an airtight alibi for himself, in case any of his friends succeed in killing me. He knows it would come out eventually that I'm Frageau, now that my Rouge et Noir study has been in Art World. He'd have some explaining to do. You can bet he'll be in some public place, surrounded by people that can identify him, when I'm shot."
“I told you we shouldn't have gone back out!” I complained. “You're a sitting duck, Nick. You should get out of town."
“I won't be run out of my own home. Not by that fool of a Boisvert, or Réné or Claude."
“Who is Claude?” I pondered. “If he's homing in on Boisvert and Lingini, how did he find out anything about Frageau? Could he be working for Fargé, Edouard's father?"
“He could be Fargé, for all we know,” Bert said. “Maybe he followed Boisvert to Rome, trying to learn what he's up to. He hasn't really done anything except follow Nick. He might have followed you to the Risorgimento. That's where you first spotted him. Maybe he's just trying to find out if Boisvert fed him a load of crap."
“He already seemed to know that. But how can we account for his knowing the Contessa?” Nick said.
“He followed you—or Boisvert—to her. Maybe he told her about Boisvert claiming his son's body. That'd account for him saying it was his business, too."
“If he's getting in Boisvert's way, I'm not the only one that should wear a bullet-proof vest,” Nick said. “I should warn him that Boisvert plays for keeps."
“Next time you spot him following you, you want to tell him that,” Nancy said sarcastically. “He's not Fargé. He's working with Boisvert. If he had nothing to hide, he'd talk to you, instead of running like a hare every time you spot him."
The wine sank lower in the bottle as we discussed possibilities. Nick opened another bottle, and before we all got so tight we forgot who slept where, I suggested we go to bed.
“Like a good little icicle,” Nick said, with a mocking grin. “You don't want to drink too much alcohol. It prevents freezing."
“And destroys the brain cells. That's probably what happened to yours."
“Probably, but it's left the rest of my body intact,” he said, and on that suggestive note, he left.
When Nancy came upstairs about a quarter of an hour later, I let on I was asleep, because I thought Bert had probably told her about my saying the painting was under Nick's bed. She'd know I had lied, and would soon figure out why. I didn't feel like an argument at that late hour, and she and Bert were becoming so lovey-dovey she'd certainly take me to task. I couldn't make up my mind about Bert. Sometimes he seemed all right. The old saying, “As the twig bends, so grows the tree,” kept running through my mind. And Bert had been a little crooked as a twig.
CHAPTER 15
This story is enough to give school teachers a bad reputation. Neither I nor Nancy usually drink so much, but it was our vacation, and in the morning I had another fuzzy head. Above the niggling pain in my temple wafted memories of the Forum by moonlight, with the crumbling grandeur of old Rome spreading under the soft, velvet, star-spangled sky. Then I remembered the less romantic events that followed. I was happy to see that Nancy was already up and out of the room, even if she had left her nighttime brassiere on the dresser, and the bathroom would be a shambles. I took her nightie off the shower rod, folded up her towels and turned on the water.
A shower helped to dissipate the grogginess. Nothing had been said of discontinuing the plan of offering the Frageau to the Minosi Gallery, so I assumed it was still on. It seemed risky to me, but Nick was determined to prove he was macho and capable. Anticipation added haste to my dressing, although it was only eight o'clock, and obviously too early to call the gallery or the Contessa. Lingini probably slept till noon.
The first glimpse of Nick at the table put a reluctant smile on my lips. He had been staring at the doorway, waiting for me. His spontaneous smile greeted me when I entered, and his eyes glowed a warm welcome. Nancy and Bert were there, too, all of us looking tired and wan. Coffee restored the color to our cheeks and a couple of croissants and four thin slices of melon filled our empty stomachs, or at least allayed the ache.
I thought Nancy must have apologized to Bert for me, or explained away my insinuating question. There was a mood of conviviality that couldn't be explained otherwise. At such moments, it was hard to go on mistrusting Bert. What I mentally called “evidence” was all circumstantial.
“Isn't this great?” Bert said two or three times. “Gee, it's nice being with Americans again. You understand everything I say, and vice versa. I'm going to miss you guys,” he said, but it was mostly Nancy he gazed at, with a quiver of his lips.
“The planes fly both ways, Bert,” she said. “Don't you ever plan to come home?"
“Home?” he asked, with a world-weary look. “What is there for someone like me in Troy?"
I took it for a rhetorical question, meaning he was too cosmopolitan to be amused at our provinciality. Nancy understood him better. She took him seriously, and answered, “We have lots of industries now. I bet you could get a good job as a salesman, or in marketing or P.R. or something."
“The old man left me the house,” he said, consideringly.
Nancy looked her encouragement. “It'd be wonderful to have you back there."
“Are my tenants wrecking the place?"
“No, actually it looks bet—it looks fine. They planted peonies in the backyard—there in the corner where your dad used to pile—uh—refuse,” she said vaguely. Mrs. Garr referred to the heap of discarded furniture that marred their yard as compost. The indignant neighbors had called a cast-off stuffed chair and a broken stove garbage.
He stared into the fruit bowl with a faraway look in his eyes. “Peonies in the backyard. That sure sounds homey. They're the little skinny yellow flowers that shoot up early in spring?"
“No, they're the big bushy ones that come in early summer. They're pink and white and red. If you put siding over the clapboard of your house, Bert, or cedar shingles, it'd look just fine,” Nancy added. A hopeful question lit her green eyes. I knew what she had in her mind—how cozy it would be, living just two houses down from her mother. Bert looked at her. You could almost feel the air tremble with a proposal. She blushed. I looked at Nick.
“It's going to be another warm day,” he said. “Just look at that sun.” It streamed through the window, and cast dancing shadows on the floor. Those who are acclimatized to the sizzling inferno of Rome in July call it warm. I looked forward to another scorcher. “Shall we take our coffee out to the terrace?"
“You go ahead,” Bert said. His eyes never left Nancy's. We took our cups outside to let them have privacy. We went to the balustrade and looked over the rooftops and spires. The greenery shone after its rain bath. “I'll miss Bert,” Nick s
aid wistfully.
“You think he's going to propose?"
“He probably has, by now. He could be my agent for the States. New York isn't that far from Troy. The Contessa was wondering why I don't exhibit in New York. Maybe it's time for it."
I didn't say anything. This didn't seem the right moment to hint that Bert had been missing for ten minutes last night, and might have met up with Claude, or put Nick's car out of commission himself. Nick knew him better than I did, and if he trusted Bert, I wasn't going to put my foot in it again.
Quite aside from any criminal behavior, however, Bert Garr didn't strike me as the optimum agent, but what did I know? He'd done all right by Nick so far. Really my mind was more attuned to the fact that Nick had no intention of returning to the States himself. His home was here. His tempera works were imbued with the soul of Italy. Why would he want to leave this lovely villa and go to Troy, where half the year it was so cold you could hardly stick your nose out the door? A famous artist in Troy would be like a bird in the sea, or a fish in the sky. It would be the wrong ambience.
“I couldn't hack the winters myself,” he said, almost as though he'd been reading my mind.
My throat felt tight. “They're pretty grim all right."
“Why do you stay on there?"
“I'm used to it. I like the change of seasons. Spring and fall are beautiful,” I said, on the defense. “Rome's much too hot in the summer to suit me."
“It's warm, but the winters are so long and cold in New York.” He gave an involuntary shudder at the memory.
It was hard to believe snow really existed, out on the terrace with the sun streaming down. The sky was an incredible azure blue, with puffs of cotton wool clouds hanging motionless above. Nick took my hand and smiled. I felt like crying. I smiled back. “Too long,” he said. “I could never spend winter in New York. My soul would freeze. It was those winters that my mother couldn't take. I have something of her Latin streak in me."
“That figures.” It's strange what mundane conversations people have at moments of high anxiety. We so often revert to nonverbal communication. I just looked at him, waiting, wondering if he'd make any mention, however tenuous, regarding my feelings for a winter in Rome.
He drank his coffee distractedly, and soon said, “Shouldn't you phone your group in Salerno and let them know where you are?"
“What I should tell them is when we'll be rejoining them."
“You and Nancy will want to discuss it."
We went back in a little later. Bert was sitting with his arm over Nancy's shoulder, but they didn't make any announcement. Nick went to wrap up the Frageau, I cleared the table and stacked the dishwasher, and Bert and Nancy went out to the terrace. I went to the studio to phone Salerno. Ron was out with the group. I left a message and said we'd phone again that evening. Then I went back to the kitchen to say goodbye. As I lovingly wiped the tiled counter and put things away, I wondered what message I'd be giving Ron Evereton.
Lana Morton would be rejoining the tour, but Nancy Bankes wouldn't? No, the tour was paid for. Nancy would probably finish it and let Bert wind up his business in Rome. Whatever happened during the remaining weeks of our European visit, it wouldn't hold a candle to these few days. I watered the herbs on the windowsill, breathing in the pungent air of oregano and parsley and marjoram. When we got back to Troy, Nancy would be preparing for her wedding. It would be a very large, white extravaganza. Nancy had been waiting for a wedding since she was about six years old. She had a hope chest and a clothes closet full of china and linen. I had a martini pitcher and six glasses bought at a sale, and I didn't even like martinis. Maybe Nick would come for the wedding
At ten o'clock, Nick phoned the Minosi Gallery. He had decided to say he was no longer Bert's client, as a pretext for calling them. We all stood around, listening. “Signorina Bambolini?"
“Is that Maria's name?” Nancy whispered, and laughed. Nick spoke in Italian, identifying himself and asking if the Minosi would be interested in exhibiting him. Bert translated roughly for us, but it was hardly necessary. We could hear the excited eagerness in Maria's voice. "Meravigliosa.” “Incantevole." Nick hung up the phone and smiled. “I'm to take the painting down right away. I didn't tell her it's from my French Frustration period. It should be interesting to see her reaction."
“You were going to phone Lingini,” Bert reminded him. “Is that still on after last night?"
“More than ever.” He dialed again. "Pronto, la Contessa, per piacere." A pause. "Rosa? Questò è Niccolò."
“Ah, Niccolò!” Her voice held the same eager excitement as Maria's. Soon he replaced the receiver and gave another of his Machiavellian smiles.
“What did she say?” we demanded, more or less in unison.
“She was very interested. She asked me why the Minosi?"
“It's a logical question, isn't it?” I asked.
“Oh, very, but I hadn't told her what gallery the painting would be at. I just told her it wasn't being exhibited at the Quattrocento. As the style was so different, I had decided to put it with a gallery. Just before she hung up, she said, ‘I'll go down to the Minosi this morning.’ But I purposely didn't give her the name. She knew which gallery."
“Maria must have phoned her,” Bert suggested.
Nick looked doubtful. “She didn't have time. There were hardly thirty seconds between calls. How did Rosa know? They're all working together: Boisvert, Claude, Maria, Lingini."
“Maria knows Lingini wants the picture, and is willing to pay top dollar for it,” Nancy countered. “Maybe she phoned the Contessa the instant you hung up."
Before Nick left, we held a short conference. “Just what exactly is supposed to happen next?” I demanded. “I mean you talked about a catalyst, Nick, but do you really have any idea just what effect this catalyst might have? Some catalysts cause explosions."
“And some cause various particles to fuse,” he added. “I seem to be that sort. One characteristic of a catalyst is that the catalytic agent itself is not permanently changed."
“You're not a chemical. Boisvert's friend had a gun, remember."
“So do I. Anyway, they'd never shoot me at the gallery. If they're all in it together, they don't want my death tied to the gallery. If they're in competition, they wouldn't shoot me with witnesses present."
“If they're in cahoots, what's to prevent them from killing you and moving your body from the gallery?"
He gave a lazy smile. “You sound as if you care, Lana.” I cared so much my insides were shaking. Nick continued, “I want to see who else comes running to the Minosi Gallery. Will Boisvert, for instance, come trotting? How else did Conan know I'm Frageau, except through Boisvert? He's the only one who knew."
“I wish the Interpol agent, who probably doesn't even exist, would come trotting,” I said. “This could get very dangerous."
“I think of it every time I look at my car windows. I'm taking my gun."
“Be careful, old buddy,” Bert cautioned.
“Aren't you going with him?” I asked in alarm. I had always assumed that Bert would go with him. That was part of my fear, yet now that he wasn't going, it seemed even worse. I didn't want Nick to go alone into that den of thieves.
“How can I? Nick's no longer my client. It'd look odd, to say the least. I can hang around outside if you like, Nick.” Bert looked at his watch.
“No, you have your job. No point messing it up,” Nick said.
“I've got to be on duty at the Risorgimento at eleven. It doesn't leave me much time."
“You mean you're going back there? To wait tables?” I asked.
He gave a disparaging snort. “I'll be behind the desk within weeks. You can't expect to start at the top."
Was there no engagement then? Nancy looked aggressively disinterested. “You can't let Nick go alone!” I insisted. “It's too dangerous.” For some reason, the word alibi darted into my head. I had an intuition, founded on nothing but fear, that Bert knew troubl
e was going to erupt, and was forging himself an alibi at the hotel.
“You want I should tag along, Nick?” he asked readily. “Just say the word. If you make it real fast, I could squeeze it in.” I didn't know what to think of this offer.
“It might be a good idea for somebody to wait outside—just in case I don't come out,” Nick said.
My heart clenched. “I'll go.” If it was only waiting outside, I could handle that. Bert was too unreliable as a backup anyway.
“Me, too,” Nancy offered.
Bert stayed behind to put on his disguise for work; Nancy and I went to the gallery with Nick in the car. While we were getting ready in the washroom she said, “If you're still thinking Bert has anything to do with all this, forget it."
“You don't know any more about it than I do. You only know what he told you, and if he's involved, he wouldn't tell the truth."
“It just so happens he idolizes Nick. Why do you think he isn't marrying me? He won't leave him. He asked me to stay,” she added.
“If you love him, why don't you stay?"
“If he loves me, why won't he come home? I should mean more to him than Nick. We're not Italians, for God's sake. I'd never be happy here."
Nick came out and the three of us got in the car. It coughed and sputtered along, nearly stopping a few times. The jets of wind whistling through the bullet holes were a constant reminder of the sort of company Nick was throwing himself into. He parked across the street a few shops up from the gallery, legally, if he didn't stay longer than half an hour. The Minosi was on a small, artistic thoroughfare, nestled between an antique shop and a jewelry store. It had a mauve door, which made it easy to spot.
Nick said, “You girls stay here. I'll be back soon.” I didn't take issue with his use of the juvenile noun. I felt as helpless as a child. He got out and crossed the street. My heart sank to my feet when he went inside carrying the wrapped painting and the mauve door closed behind him.
Nancy, seeing my condition, said, “There's a traffic cop two blocks down. I'll run and get him if trouble breaks out."