The Big Story

by Morris West

  Ashley looked up. He grinned crookedly.

  “No comment.”

  Orgagna looked across at Granforte, shrugged significantly and went on:

  “I had thought to do Mr. Ashley a courtesy, and at the same time to save embarrassment to my wife. But, since coming here, Mr. Ashley has put himself beyond courtesy. He has tried to bribe the members of my household as he bribed Enzo Garofano. He tried to make love to my secretary and then charged her father with attempting to kill him. When he saw my peasants out shooting—for his own dinner, incidentally—he claimed that they were forcing him to stay inside the grounds under threat of killing him. This afternoon he claimed that I tried to poison him, when as everyone can see he was suffering from nothing more than food-poisoning, simply cured by three measures of castor oil. Under these circumstances, I feel that I am excused from further courtesy and I must ask Captain Granforte to relieve me of—of a very unwelcome guest.”

  Orgagna sat back in his chair and waited. George Harlequin lit a cigarette and smiled blandly at the tense little company. Captain Granforte looked down at his soft hands for a moment, then he looked at Ashley.

  “Mr. Ashley, you are not obliged to answer any questions other than those I put to you in the privacy of my office in the course of an official interrogation. However, it would help us all, I think, if you were prepared to waive that privilege and answer some questions here and now. Would you do that?”

  Ashley thought about it a moment, then he answered.

  “Yes. But I reserve the right to decline any question.”

  Granforte nodded.

  “That’s quite reasonable. Now, the first question. Why did you begin this investigation of the affairs of His Excellency?”

  “I belong to a news-gathering organisation. It’s my job to investigate matters of public interest.”

  “Ebbene! Your action was not influenced in any way by your previous friendship with His Excellency’s wife or your present feelings towards her?”

  “No.”

  “What was the nature of the documents you were attempting to buy from Enzo Garofano?”

  “They were six photostat copies of letters dealing with dollar transactions, the allocation of American grain-seed to distressed farming areas and certain bond-holdings in America.”

  “Did you in fact buy these documents?”

  “No.”

  “Did you take them from Garofano without payment?”

  “No.”

  Captain Granforte paused and licked his lips. His moon-face was touched with a faint smile of anticipation.

  “His Excellency has made a statement to me claiming that during the—er—incident at the hotel, his wife saw you take certain documents, or an envelope containing documents, from the pocket of this man’s coat. Is that true?”

  “No.”

  Granforte turned quickly to Cosima.

  “Did you tell your husband that, signora?”

  “Yes.”

  Ashley could see it coming, but he was too tired to care. Sooner or later they would get at the truth and the truth would be just as dirty as the lies that were told to cover it.

  Granforte turned back to him.

  “How do you explain this discrepancy, Mr. Ashley?”

  “It’s quite simple. Cosima was lying to protect me.

  “Thank you. I am glad you did not attempt another lie. Now…” He put his hands on the arms of his chair and pushed his soft body upright against the padded back. His soft mouth was smiling no longer. “Now if the lady lied once to protect you, is it not probable that she lied again—on a more important matter?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do. She lied, as you lied, about the killing of Enzo Garofano. He was not thrown from the cutting, Mr. Ashley. He was walking up the road like a simple citizen going home. You saw him and you accelerated and you ran him down. You took the documents from his brief-case and gave them to the lady for safe-keeping. You brought them up here to use for blackmail. And this afternoon, fearing that you had been poisoned, you were induced to return them to His Excellency, who has now passed them on to me.”

  Like a conjurer pulling a rabbit out of a black silk hat, Granforte fished in his breast-pocket and brought out the brown manila envelope and tipped the six photostats into his hand.

  Ashley gazed at him with amazement.

  It didn’t add up. Nothing added up. Orgagna was selling out Cosima as well as himself. That was feasible—a delayed revenge that would make him look like the wronged husband and maybe give him a fillip with the women voters. Journalist and wife conspire to ruin saviour of ltaly. It might work. Orgagna had subtlety enough to think it out and gamble on it.

  But the photostats? Read in conjunction with the typescript which was already in Granforte’s hands, they were a damning indictment of Orgagna and all his works. Unless—and nothing was impossible now—Granforte had been bought, too, and George Harlequin was party to the whole devious transaction.

  Granforte was still watching him, the light of triumph in his limpid eyes. Ashley struggled to get his voice under control before he asked :

  “Do you mind if I look at those?”

  To his surprise, Granforte made no objection but passed the envelope across to him. He spread the photostats out in his hands like a pack of cards and looked at them. They had nothing at all to do with the business operations of Orgagna. They were six harmless letters taken at random from the files and photostatted. He put them in the envelope and handed them back to Granforte.

  “Well, Mr. Ashley?”

  “They’re the wrong letters.”

  Granforte spread his hands in a gesture of tolerant patience and smiled.

  “What you mean to say, Mr. Ashley, is that Garofano was trying to cheat you with the sale of worthless documents. You did not know that, of course. If you had known, you would not have conspired, both of you, to commit murder and ruin the husband of the woman you love. When you found you had been cheated you turned to blackmail, to break this marriage and make profit out of it.”

  Ashley looked across at Cosima. Her face was buried in her hands. He looked at Orgagna, but he was staring straight ahead with blank, expressionless eyes, the very image of a wronged and grief-stricken husband. He looked at Elena Carrese. She was staring at Orgagna, her eyes bright, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap.

  “Have you anything to say, Mr. Ashley?” Granforte’s voice was soft as silk.

  “Yes, I have!” The words came out, rasping and dry, with all the strength he had left in him. “You’re seeing this the way you want to see it, because you’ve all got an interest in concealing the truth. But you’re going to hear it just the same. Those letters are a lie, a clever plant. The real ones I gave to Orgagna this afternoon. They were given to me by Elena Carrese because she believed that Enzo Garofano, her half-brother, had been killed by conspiracy framed in this villa and by this family. He had brought them to the hotel and given them to her for safekeeping during our negotiations. When we quarrelled and he ran out of the hotel, she still kept them, knowing he would come back. But he never came back. I can’t prove what happened to him, but I believe he was hustled into a car and driven up here. I know, for certain, that Roberto, the barman, telephoned this place to tell them when Cosima and I had left the hotel. I say they waited for us to come down the mountain road, knowing that we would drive fast, as everybody does. I say they threw him under the wheels of the car and that Cosima and I were the innocent instruments of murder.”

  Granforte seemed unimpressed with the passionate outburst. He said coldly :

  “Who is ‘they’, Mr. Ashley?”

  “Orgagna as the organiser, the man with the alibi, the man who lifts a telephone and has things done by his faithful retainers. Carlo Carrese as the man who directs operations. Any two of a dozen peasants on the estate for the rest of it.”

  Granforte smiled ironically.

  “You tell a dramatic story, Mr. Ashley. Profes
sionally, I should say you were very competent. I am interested to see how you prove it.”

  “First, question Roberto at the hotel and see if you can get him to tell you about the telephone call from the Villa Orgagna and the man who paid him ten thousand lire.”

  “We shall do that, Mr. Ashley. Next?”

  “Next ask George Harlequin here and he will tell you that I didn’t have the photostats in my possession at the hotel, and that I didn’t know where they were.”

  “Mr. Harlequin?”

  George Harlequin’s mild eyes were full of regret. His boyish face was wooden. He shook his head slowly.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you much, my dear fellow. I know you told me you didn’t have them. I know you told me you didn’t know where they were. But that doesn’t prove anything, does it?”

  “Next, Mr. Ashley.”

  “Ask Elena Carrese. She will tell you how the photostats came into her possession. She may tell you why, but I’d advise her not to.” He shot a quick, warning glance at the girl. “Then she will tell you how her father beat her yesterday and how, for her own reasons, she decided to hand the documents over to me. She pushed them under my bedroom door last night.”

  “What have you to say to that, signorina?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation she gave him the answer.

  “Every word of it is a lie. I have not seen my brother since before I went to Rome. All I know of documents is what I have heard here and from His Excellency. This man tried to make love to me yesterday in front of the shrine and when I refused him, he threatened to—to embroil me in this matter. I am His Excellency’s secretary. I have access to his papers. He was trying to frighten me. Then—then my father came and I was able to free myself…”

  She broke off, bright-eyed and angry, and Ashley saw her flush with pleasure at Orgagna’s sidelong glance of approval. It was clear enough now. With Cosima removed, there was still a chance for her. Orgagna could be won back. If he could not be won, he could be blackmailed. It was a sweeter victory than the one she had planned, because there was still hope in it. But he could not let it pass without a challenge.

  “Listen, Granforte…”

  “Please, Richard!” It was Cosima’s voice, weary but strong, raised for the first time in his defence or her own. “Don’t say any more. Not here, not now. Whatever you say, they will twist and turn until it means what they want it to mean. I have tried to warn you before, but you would not listen. This time… please!”

  For a long moment, he looked at her and saw the pain in her eyes and the fear and the weariness and the wounded, disappointed love for him. Now, at last they were allies, and he hated himself that he had come so late to the wisdom of it. He turned back to Granforte and said simply :

  “What now, Captain?”

  “On the evidence at my disposal,” said Granforte slowly, “I have no alternative but to place you both in custody on a charge of conspiracy and murder.”

  “I see.” He stood up. The others watched him curiously. “In that case, I’d like to phone my office in Rome, have them contact the Embassy and arrange legal assistance.”

  Granforte nodded thoughtfully.

  “Do that, Mr. Ashley.”

  As he walked to the phone, Orgagna said sharply :

  “Isn’t that a little unusual, Captain?”

  “It is a courtesy,” said Granforte smoothly. “In the circumstances, it would be unwise to deny it.”

  Ashley dialled the Sorrento exchange and booked the call to Hansen.

  “Urgentissimo. It is a—a diplomatic matter.”

  The girl told him it would take half an hour. He thought it would probably be longer. He put down the receiver and walked back to his chair.

  “Half an hour delay.”

  “We can wait,” said Captain Granforte.

  For a moment it seemed Orgagna was going to protest. Then he clicked his fingers and Carlo Carrese began slicing lemon peel for a new round of drinks. They sat like strangers in a theatre foyer waiting for the bells to ring. But there were no bells, only the remorseless ticking of an ormolu clock on the big marble mantel, carved with the arms of Orgagna.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “CARLO!”

  They looked up, startled, at the small, imperious sound of Cosima’s voice. The old man straightened and looked to her.

  “Signora?”

  “Ring for Concetta, please.”

  Carlo walked to the bell-cord and tugged it. A few moments later there was a knock at the door and Concetta came in. She looked round, startled at the circle of tense faces, then turned to Cosima.

  “La signora vuole qual’cosa?”

  “My handbag, Concetta. The big brown one. In the second drawer of the bureau.”

  “Subito, signora!”

  She bustled out, self-consciously. The others looked at Cosima as if anxious for some explanation of the banal little act. She paid no attention to them, but reached for a cigarette. Captain Granforte was on his feet instantly, offering her the light. Then he sat down again.

  Carlo began shaking the new cocktail. The ice rattled dryly in the shaker, drowning out the ticking of the clock. Still nobody spoke. What was there to say? Nothing that could be framed in the polite hypocrisy of words.…

  “… I have cheated and won. You have cheated and lost. I have indulged myself no less than you; but your passions have betrayed you, while mine have turned to profit. You have lied and I have lied. My lie is accepted as truth. Yours will put a noose around your neck. We are all venal. We are all traitors. We are all potential murderers. Some of us are a little more skilful and ruthless than others.…’

  Then, suddenly, Orgagna spoke. His voice was terse and irritable.

  “Can we not end this, Captain? The situation is embarrassing for all of us.”

  “Most embarrassing for me, Excellency,” said Granforte mildly. “I beg Your Excellency’s patience.”

  “Very well.”

  Then Concetta came in with the handbag, cast a hurried look round and went out again to regale the kitchen with the odd behaviour of the signori. Cosima opened the handbag, took out a small gold compact and began to powder her nose. The others watched her as children watch the animated dummies in a shop-window. Cosima took no notice of them. Calmly she finished the little ritual, snapped the compact and put it back in her bag.

  Carlo was decanting the drinks. Cosima summoned him again.

  “Carlo!”

  “Signora?”

  “A moment, please!”

  He seemed to hesitate a moment, then he put down the shaker and the glass, wiped his hands carefully on the napkin and came to stand in front of her, a tall, commanding figure, full of the dignity of age and faithful service.

  Cosima looked up at him. Her voice was gentle and affectionate.

  “Carlo, as you have heard the Captain say, I must soon leave you. It is the custom—a good custom—to reward a good servant. You have been my husband’s servant, but you have served me, too ; and I am grateful. Here is my gift.”

  She took from the handbag a thick white envelope and held it out to him.

  The old man hesitated a moment and looked uncertainly towards Orgagna. Orgagna nodded briefly. The old man took the envelope, bowed stiffly and said:

  “Mille grazie, signora!”

  “Prego!” said Cosima and watched him walk back to the serving table, holding the envelope uncertainly in his hand. When he reached the table, she spoke again, more loudly this time, and more imperiously. “Open it, Carlo!”

  The knotted hands fumbled uncertainly at the flap of the envelope while the others watched, in tense surprise. Granforte was leaning forward in his chair, his hands on the arms of it, as if ready to thrust himself forward.

  Slowly, the old man opened the envelope and brought out a small wad of newsprint photographs pinned together. He was too far away for the others to see the subjects. All they saw was the heavy sepia ink of the popular Italian pictorials and the black
captions underneath. Carlo Carrese turned them over slowly, one by one, his lips spelling out the captions. As he deciphered each one, he would look first at Elena, then at Orgagna, then at Cosima and back once more at the photographs.

  The others watched him entranced, as if he were an actor miming the gamuts of emotions, shock, disbelief, fear, disgust and finally a slow, smouldering anger. Then the miming stopped and the actor gave voice—a deep, slow voice spelling out the simple question.

  “Signora, will you tell me what this means?”

  “It means,” said Cosima, with cold precision, “that the man you have nursed as a child, whose father you served, whose house you kept, whose honour you have tried to preserve with murder, has taken your own daughter and made her a putana. He has not done it secretly. Her name and her face have been published in the press. The men who write these things have made a subtle joke of it so that all the world may know. Ask her yourself, if you do not believe me!”

  But there was no need to ask her. She was cowering back in her chair, her face chalk-white, one bunched hand held to her parted lips. For one shocked moment it seemed as if the old man were going to stride over to her and strike her.

  But the moment passed. Carlo Carrese’s hand trembled and the clippings dropped and fluttered on to the serving table. He turned slowly and picked them up. He stood a while, bowed and uncertain, his weathered face twitching. Then he straightened up. His mouth was set, his face was composed. When he turned round they saw that he held in one hand the little bundle of clippings and in the other the short, bright knife with which he had been slicing the lemons.

  Slowly he walked across the floor to Orgagna.

  His Excellency stood up. They might have been father and son, except that the son wore the dress of rank and the father the livery of service.

  No one moved. Not even Granforte. They were spectators in the pit. The stage belonged to the actors. They were remote, untouchable, playing out the last act of their very private tragedy.