The Big Story

by Morris West

  “Too simple, Cosima.”

  “Why, Richard?”

  Why? The truth was trembling on his tongue: ‘Because it sets me up for a murder charge and leaves your precious husband scot-free. Because my only hope—and it’s a slim one—is to have Captain Granforte examine the ground at the top of the embankment for signs of a struggle. Because…’ But he didn’t say it. Instead, he explained patiently:

  “In any country to kill a man on a mile of open road points to dangerous driving. That’s a serious charge. The charge in Italy could be more serious still—culpable homicide. Better for both of us,” he leaned a little on the phrase, “—better for both of us if we can avoid that one.”

  A flicker of interest showed in Harlequin’s pale eyes. Orgagna looked thoughtful, then nodded, sagely.

  “Mr. Ashley is right, of course, Cosima. In any case it is wiser not to tamper with the truth, even for the sake of convenience.”

  “Much wiser,” said Richard Ashley.

  There was a pause, as if a little chill wind had blown through the room, stirring the smooth surface of the talk, ruffling up the weedy tangle of motives and counter-motives that lay beneath it.

  Then, once more, Orgagna took command of the situation. He signalled to the maître d’hôtel, and the party was swept instantly into the sedulous flurry of dinner-service. The waiters settled them into their chairs—Orgagna at the head, Cosima at the foot of the table, Ashley and Harlequin side by side facing Elena Carrese and the young artist, who sat with their backs to the window.

  The wine was poured and the food was brought and they might have been any party of wealthy internationals met for enjoyment in the Siren Land. Harlequin began a three-cornered conversation with Tullio and Orgagna on Roman exhibitions and trends in modern Italian painting. Ashley was left with the thankless job of entertaining an old mistress and the woman who had supplanted her in her husband’s bed.

  He was less than successful. Elena’s replies to his first gambits were brusque and sullen. Cosima battled vainly to maintain the air of bright detachment proper to a virtuous wife. Before they were half-way through the fish, the conversation was dead and they sat listening to the animated discussion at the head of the table. Ashley was glad of the relief It left him free to think. And his first thoughts were of the blonde girl with the strained, unhappy face who sat opposite him.

  The change in her was startling. Her mannequin charm was gone, stripped off like a carnival mask. Her face was tight and strange. Her empty, laughing eyes were full now of brooding hate. Why? Because he had driven out with the wife of her lover? That might be matter for laughter or triumph, but not for tears. Because he had killed a man? But what connection could there be between a shabby little huckster like Garofano and this expensive secretary-mistress from the salons of Rome?

  How else explain the sudden change from impersonal flirtation to lively hate? Unless Orgagna had sensed her possible interest in him and had made some new malice to set her against him. It was possible. Anything was possible at this stagey dinner party.

  “… don’t you agree, Mr. Ashley?” Orgagna’s voice started him out of his reverie.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch the question.”

  “We were talking of morals—the morals of art and the morals of politics.”

  Ashley shrugged.

  “I’m a newsman, not a philosopher.”

  “Come, come, my dear fellow!” Orgagna rallied him with apparent good-humour. “That is the function of the press, is it not? The whole justification of the Fourth Estate is that it should be a monitor of public morals.”

  Anger soured the taste of the wine. They were at him again, pricking and goading, watching his reaction to each new pique. But anger was what they wanted—anger and indiscretion. He dared not yield to them. He sipped his wine and framed his answer, carefully.

  “Tonight is a privileged occasion, Your Excellency. It would be bad manners to discuss the morals of the press—or of the politicians.”

  George Harlequin laughed suddenly and choked over his wine.

  “Privileged occasion! That’s very good indeed. Odd you know, Orgagna, we never expect the Americans to be phrase-makers. Ashley here is quite an adept.”

  “I have never underrated Mr. Ashley’s talents,” said Orgagna, with thin urbanity. “I am glad he is our friend and not an enemy.”

  ‘Now,’ thought Ashley, ‘now we come to the core of the apple. He wants a truce. He knows he can embarrass me—he is not sure I can be silenced. He wants to make a bargain. A little more patience and he will lay down the terms of it.’

  The thought cheered him. He acknowledged the compliment with a grin and the tension slacked off. Cosima made a remark about fashions. Harlequin capped it. The slim youth joined in with eager feminine interest and the awkward moment passed. Only Elena Carrese sat sullen and silent, with a moonlit sea and the lights of the distant city a background for her sombre beauty.

  The plates were changed and the new wine was broken out. The waiters hovered attentively as the signori ate and talked of high fashion and high finance, of society scandals and curial intrigues. Their faces were blank, their eyes expressionless, as befits good servants. But their ears were open and attentive, storing up the scraps of gossip and the tag-ends of information. In the breadline economies of the South, a well-timed tip might mean an extra kilo of pasta on the family table or a warm coat for an ailing child.

  The roast was served and the highly-coloured pastries. The fruit was brought and the cheeses. The strong, bitter coffee was expressed in the silver percolator and the maître d’hôtel was warming the big balloons for the brandy when, sharp and strident, the telephone rang.

  The maître d’hôtel laid down the brandy-bubble and went to answer it. His voice was low and noncommittal; he cast a quick shrewd glance at the company round the table, then laid down the receiver and hurried over to Orgagna. He bent close to him and whispered in his ear. Orgagna listened attentively, then excused himself and went into the bedroom to take the call on another phone.

  Cosima watched him go with troubled, inquiring eyes.

  Three minutes later he was back. He made no reference to the call but picked up the conversation where he had left off.

  Then, when the coffee was served and the brandy, he turned to the maître d’hôtel.

  “You may leave us now. If we need anything we shall ring.”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  He bowed and left the room, flapping the waiters before him like a mother hen with a pair of chickens. Orgagna sat relaxed in his chair staring down at the brandy bowl between his cupped hands. Without looking up, he said coolly:

  “Tullio, take Elena down to the lounge and give her coffee and brandy there. Don’t leave the hotel. I may need you both later.”

  Without a word, the young man and the girl stood up and left the room. Orgagna waited until the door closed behind them. Then he looked up. His eyes were cold. His mouth was grim. The others watched him, puzzled and uneasy. Then he spoke:

  “That phone call was from Captain Granforte at the Questura. He wished to interview you, Mr. Ashley.”

  “He hasn’t wasted much time.”

  Orgagna waved aside the interruption.

  “I pointed out to the Captain that, because of my wife, I, too, was involved in this matter. I have asked him, as a favour, to join us here, where we may discuss in privacy whatever problems are involved. He has consented to do that.”

  “Kind of him,” said Ashley dryly.

  “Kinder than you know, Mr. Ashley.” Orgagna looked up, sharply. “We would be wise to use these few minutes to prepare ourselves for the discussion.”

  “I’m willing to listen.”

  “Good.” Orgagna sipped his brandy, savouring the rich spirit deliberately. Then he set down his glass and leaned forward. His long, expressive hands emphasised each careful phrase. “I’m not unaware, Ashley, of your former relationship with my wife. Privately I have chosen to ignore
it. Publicly I must suppress it, at all costs. For this reason, I am prepared to subscribe to a fiction—that you are my friend, that your drive this afternoon was a favour to me and a pleasant politeness to Cosima.”

  “I think that’s a wise decision,” said Ashley coolly.

  Orgagna took another careful sip of brandy.

  “Granforte is, apparently, aware of a—a business relationship between yourself and the man you killed. For this reason he finds certain sinister aspects in the accident. I imagine…” Orgagna looked down at the table and paused a moment. “—I am, of course, only guessing—that he will wish to bring charges of sufficient gravity to hold you here, pending a further investigation.”

  “Which could be embarrassing to you?”

  “Because of my wife, yes.”

  “Have it your own way.”

  Orgagna ignored the irony and went on, choosing his words with nice deliberation.

  “Therefore, our interests are identical. There would seem to be grounds for an alliance.”

  “What’s the price?” asked Ashley bluntly.

  “The price we can discuss later, if you survive this interview with Captain Granforte.”

  “If we both survive it.”

  Orgagna pushed his chair back from the table and stood up. His tone was indifferent.

  “Later, perhaps, we may debate the issue. Think it over, Mr. Ashley. We haven’t much time. Come, Cosima.”

  He moved to the far end of the table, helped Cosima from her chair, and together they walked into the bedroom. The door closed behind them and Ashley was left alone with George Harlequin.

  Imperturbable as ever, the little man sipped his brandy. His pale eyes were lit with malicious amusement. Ashley lit a cigarette and waited.

  “I warned you, didn’t I?”

  Ashley looked at him with cold contempt.

  “I’ve seen some dirty things done in the name of Her Majesty’s Government, Harlequin. I didn’t expect murder.”

  “Murder?” The smile was quenched in the pale eyes. They were lifeless as pebbles in the smooth boyish face.

  “Orgagna arranged it, with his wife as an accessory and me as executioner.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Naturally.” Ashley was weary now. His patience was stretched to breaking point. He was sick of them all—sick of their devious speech and their subtle contriving. But he was caught in the net they had spread for him and he could no more be quit of them than he could of himself or the ambition that drove him. The big story had blown up in his face, but the wreckage was piled on top of him, pinning him down.

  Cold and aloof, George Harlequin watched him. He studied the lean brown face and the strong, nervous hands on the white napery. He, too, was limed and caught and, in a franker moment, he might have admitted it. But now, in this moment, in this room, sitting over the wreckage of the ducal dinner, he was a professional committed to all the sordid shifts of his trade. His flat precise voice was wintry as he laid down the next statement:

  “Orgagna knows you’ve got the photostats.”

  “What?” Ashley started up as if he had been stuck with a pin. “Say that again!”

  “Orgagna knows you’ve got the photostats.”

  Ashley looked at him a moment, gaping in wonderment. Then he threw back his head and laughed and laughed. Orgagna and Cosima hurried out of the bedroom and the three of them stood watching him, listening to his wild, hysterical mirth that bounced and echoed round the walls of the room and up among the plaster cupids on the ceiling.

  Two minutes later Captain Granforte arrived and there was no laughter left in him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CAPTAIN EDUARDO GRANFORTE was a singularly happy man. He sat at ease in the salon of His Excellency, the Duke of Orgagna, with a fine brandy cradled in his soft hands and a tabular list of profitable information tucked away in his brain-box.

  The information gave him confidence, but he was too experienced to fall into arrogance. He was sure of a minimum profit, but he knew that with tact and discretion he might increase it considerably.

  He was not a corrupt man, though he served a corrupt administration. He was honest with himself—which is the greatest honesty of all—and he knew that while all men had a price, Granforte’s price was probably higher than most. He had never perverted justice, though he had often connived at injustice when it was too strong for the creaky machinery of the Italian legal system. He had never taken a bribe, but he saw no point in refusing an honorarium from a grateful citizen.

  So now, as he sat at the centre of the little arc of people, Orgagna, Cosima, Harlequin and Richard Ashley, he was pervaded with well-being and his interrogation was deceptively humble.

  “We accept, Mr. Ashley, the fact of your long friendship with their Excellencies.” He bowed towards the pair of them. “This explains, more than satisfactorily, your presence on the road at this hour, the use of a car which is not your own, even, possibly, a certain brio in your driving.”

  “A pleasant way to put it,” said Ashley tersely.

  “However,” Granforte gestured widely with his glass, “we are less happy with reports of your own relations with the dead man.”

  “Why?”

  “First, we understand that you were doing business with him.”

  “I’ve already told you that.”

  “What sort of business?”

  “I’ve told you that, too. Buying information.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “News items.”

  “Could you be more specific, Mr. Ashley?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is part of the ethics of my profession, Captain.”

  Captain Granforte smiled pleasantly. He didn’t need the information. He had it all listed in his very capacious brain-box. It amused him to tease this big, confident American. It profited him to impress the dark-faced Duke and his beautiful and faithless wife. The more they respected him, the more they would be prepared to concede, when the time came to strike a bargain. He questioned Ashley again:

  “It would, therefore, be true to say that the information you were buying from Garofano was of a confidential nature?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What do you know about Enzo Garofano, Mr. Ashley?”

  “Nothing. He approached me with an offer of information. I checked the facts and not the man. The facts were sound. I was prepared to buy. I didn’t care to know any more about him.”

  “Then permit me to tell you, Mr. Ashley. Garofano is—or was—a clerk in the Municipio of Naples.”

  “Interesting.”

  “More than interesting, Mr. Ashley, relevant. Your actions lay you open to a charge of suborning a public official to gain access to Government information.”

  Ashley shook his head and smiled grimly.

  “You’ll have to do better than that, Captain. The information had nothing to do with Government files. Even if it had, you couldn’t prove it. Try again.”

  “Do you deny, Mr. Ashley,” Granforte stabbed at him with a plump finger, “do you deny that the information was in the form of documents?”

  “No, I don’t deny that.”

  “Would you be good enough to show me the documents?”

  “I don’t have them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Garofano wanted too much for them. I refused to buy.”

  “And then, Mr. Ashley,” the Captain’s voice was smooth as silk, “and then you quarrelled with this man in the lounge of the hotel. You struck him several times. You were heard to threaten his life.”

  “By whom?”

  “By the barman, Roberto. Do you deny that?’

  “No. It’s quite true.”

  “Allora!” Captain Granforte leaned back in his chair and sniffed the last fading bouquet of the brandy. “You see the point to which we are arrived, Mr. Ashley. You make a public display of violence. You utter a public threat. You admit a motiv
e—the refusal to sell certain documents. An hour later you run this man down on a straight stretch of open road. You bring him in to me. You bring also his brief-case, which is empty. You see the inference?”

  “A moment, Captain!” It was Orgagna who spoke. He was leaning forward in his chair, tense, strained.

  The Captain held up a deprecating hand.

  “Please, Your Excellency, allow me to finish. I know what you are going to say. To make an accusation of this kind is to join Your Excellency’s wife to a premeditated crime. This is, of course, unthinkable.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Orgagna softly. He sat back slowly in his chair, watching Granforte from under hooded lids.

  “Therefore, it is necessary to examine in more detail the events of the afternoon, the movements of Mr. Ashley and of your wife, the movements of Garofano after he left the hotel, to show clearly the accidental nature of his death. On the other hand——”

  Ashley stiffened and waited for it. The soft-faced Captain was no fool. In his own circuitous fashion he was walking towards the truth.

  “—there may be information which Mr. Ashley has so far failed to put into our hands.”

  “I have nothing more to tell you, Captain.”

  Granforte pursed his full red lips and cocked his head on one side.

  “Have you any suggestions which might help us in this investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are they, Mr. Ashley?”

  “Send your men out to look at the top of the embankment where Garofano fell. It may give you some idea of how he came to be there and what caused him to fall.”

  The Captain nodded.

  “We have already thought of that, Mr. Ashley. Unfortunately there is nothing we can do till the daylight. It is my own view that we shall find nothing, but I am prepared to keep an open mind.”

  He might have said much more.

  He might have said that there were two policemen cursing the night away under the olive trees, with orders to arrest anyone who came near the spot. He might have said that he had checked the survey of the Commune and found that the place from which Garofano had fallen was the boundary of the Orgagna estates.

  But he was a shrewd fellow who liked to keep a shot or two in reserve. He sat back in his chair, moon-faced and genial, and waited for someone to ask him a question. He was surprised when it came from George Harlequin.