"For me some more talk with Annette Dimola. and then Fm off to Boston. For you, well, you might do some digging around in the local drug scene to see if you can come up with any links to the Masuit estate." Penny was thoughtful. "I've got some ideas about that too. And. oh yes. the mail! Try and find out from the post office when and how that cablegram I sent to your uncle was delivered and particularly if any of the Dimolas were around at the time. One good thing about all this—with Eagle Smith under arrest the murderer must be feeling a whole lot safer; he'll be off guard and less likely to be concerned about what we're up to." They parted amiably.
Penny sought out Annette Dimola on her return to the mansion. "I have to go into Boston," she explained, "but there is one question I wanted to ask you before I took off. The last time we talked you mentioned that Mr. Dimola's brothers were killed in the war. Were they married? And did he have any sisters and, if so, are they married with families?"
Annette looked faintly puzzled but answered readily enough. "No, neither of his brothers was married—they were all pretty young, you realize—and Rinaldo is the sole survivor. There was one sister but she died as a child."
"And how about cousins?"
"None that I know of, and I don't think there are any because I recall, when Steven and Rinaldo were talking about the genealogy, Rinaldo saying something about them being the only branch of the Dimolas left."
"And his parents?"
"Both dead long since, I'm afraid."
"I see, well thank you," Penny said, and left it at that.
She stopped at Chase's to gas up before embarking on the Boston trip. There was no sign of Albert and in answer to her honking Mr. Chase came out of the store to serve her. "Hear you're up at the big house now," he remarked as he pumped the gas.
"Yes. Mrs. Rinaldo Dimola has been very kind and hospitable."
His lugubrious face hardened and he bent down to the open window. "Mrs. Spring, you seem to be a nice lady, and folks hereabouts appreciate what you're trying to do for Zeb, so, a word of warning. Don't get taken in by Annette Dimola. She's a schemer if there ever was one. The first Mrs. Dimola—she was a Chase, you know—was a nice lady just like you, and she had the wool pulled over her eyes." He snorted gently. "All the time she was thinking Steven and Annette were going to make a match of it—not but what there was plenty who'd have agreed with her, the way they used to go on!—and then, when she was hardly cold in the ground, poor soul, Annette ups and marries the main chance. A proper scandal it was."
Penny tried not to let her surprise show. "But surely Steven Dimola was married about that time too."
"He rushed off to foreign parts, true enough, and when he came back with a wife folks all said it was one of them rebound things. If you ask me, it was the best day's work he ever did." A glow of appreciation appeared in the dark eyes. "Fine figure of a woman, Mrs. Steven is, and sensible too. Has her head on straight, which is more than I can say of some up there. Anyway, thought I'd better say my say so that you won't be taken in like most folks are. Oh, and another thing, young Eagle Smith didn't do that to Zeb; that boy is all hot air, there's no violence in him." He nodded significantly and, stepping back from the car, waved her off.
As Penny settled down to the long dreary drive she chewed on this new nugget of information, which had all the elements of classic tragedy. It might account, she reflected, for whatever lay between Steven and Ann Langley, whose physical resemblance to the slightly older Annette had struck her from the first. Men didn't often change their taste in women, and the Dimola taste ran heavily to blondes. How far had that gone, she wondered, and was the possessive Inga as unaware of it as she appeared to be? She shook herself impatiently, she was getting sidetracked and she needed to think squarely about the main issue so that she could succinctly put the problem for Toby to solve. There was an outside chance that the murder was bound up with Rinaldo's war service in Italy, with one of that group of men, all supposedly dead, who appeared in the photo. But she did not really think so. The striking resemblance of the dentition of the corpse to Rinaldo's own argued for a blood connection—but what kind of connection? A bastard, sired on some Italian girl during the war? And if so, whose? Rinaldo's or one of his dead brother's? From Zeb's little note to himself it was obvious that he had been thinking along the same lines. The apparent age of the corpse as given in the coroner's report deducted from the present year placed his birthdate in the war. Zeb must have seen the corpse—possibly even before the face was mutilated—and seen the resemblance to his hero; but at that point Rinaldo lay stricken (and was that just a coincidence or had something triggered the stroke?), so Zeb was on the horns of a dilemma and in his panic had called her in. His note about Imola—did that represent knowledge or supposition? Whichever it was she felt it was an obvious starting point for Toby, and there she would send him.
She frowned to herself as the great objection to all this supposition weighed on her. Supposing all this was true, what possible threat could the unknown have posed? What threat big enough to drive someone to murder? I'llegitimacy was no great thing these days to anyone; it could cause scandal perhaps, blackmail even, but the only one involved enough, fanatical enough about the family honor, to be influenced by such motives was the one man who could not possibly have done it, Rinaldo himself. For the rest the arrival of a long-lost bastard might have been an embarrassment but surely nothing more; certainly nothing to warrant murder. And the only other fanatic around was Zeb, who could conceivably murder someone who posed a threat to his hero, but who couldn't possibly have committed the murder either.
Or was that so impossible? For a wild moment her mind toyed with the idea that Zeb's appeal to her had been a demented attempt at a smoke screen, a guilt-ridden "catch-me-if-you-can" challenge. But that was ridiculous too, for Zeb certainly had not bashed his own head in on the bog. Yet, if there was a drug angle to the case and Zeb's attack was connected with that, then her first idea might not be so ridiculous after all ... Her thoughts whirled with the complications, and almost thankfully she turned her mind back to dealing with the thickening stream of traffic as the Boston skyline came into view.
A weary time later she was sitting engulfed behind John Everett's big desk, waiting impatiently for the phone to ring. Everett himself was out, busy playing a willing Watson to her Sherlock Holmes, and trying to get a newspaper to transmit a teleprint of the photo she had given him to an Italian counterpart in Bologna. When the telephone did jingle she seized it and felt an overwhelming sense of relief to hear Toby's mellifluous rumble at the other end; it was a very puzzled rumble.
Her own nerves at full jangle, she wasted no time on polite amenities. "Look, Toby, I'm in deep trouble and urgently need your help, and this call is going to cost John Everett a fortune, so just shut up and listen." she said all in one breath. The rumble assured her resignedly that it wasn't a bit surprised about that and to go ahead.
She talked solidly for half an hour, at the end of which, considerably out of breath, she panted, "So you understand what to look for, and how important it all is. If no one remembers Dimola's wartime activities there, try and find out what he did there two years ago; who he saw and so on. And also try to find out what other family members were there too. Got all that?"
Toby, whose photographic memory was renowned, said huffily that he had "got it" long since, but where was he supposed to pick up the telephoto?
She told him and added belatedly. "I hope this isn't going to upset your own plans too much. I wouldn't have bothered you if there had been any other way."
"Nice of you to be so considerate," the phone boomed sarcastically, "but, not to worry; I can't think of a better way to spend my vacation than snooping around a benighted village after some long-forgotten or possibly nonexistent scandal, but I'll do what I can. How can I get in touch with you when I have unearthed the closeted skeletons?"
That indeed was a problem. After some rapid thought she gave him John Everett's number and then the Dimol
a number and Ann's extension. "If it's not something vital," she went on, "call John, and we'll have to fix up something here for him to relay the message to me. If it's something that simply can't wait, call the Dimola number, but if you do that, for God's sake be careful in what you say—it's a case of walls have ears."
"Even if we talk Swahili?" Toby's voice was heavily amused.
"Oh, I never thought of that!" Penny confessed. "Our one joint language that nobody would understand. How clever you are, Toby! So call the Dimolas direct then. And good hunting—and bless you!"
"I'm glad you appreciate it," Toby said. "Bless you too.
And in Heaven's name don't get into any more trouble, it looks as if we've got more than we can handle right now." The line went dead.
Penny smiled at the phone. "He said 'we,'" she said aloud fondly, "he's hooked!"
CHAPTER 12
She dined with John Everett, who was so eager to continue his Watson role, that she set him the task of finding out about Wanda Dimola's background and also to check into the activities of Dimola Enterprises to see if Alexander's picture of his father as a man without archenemies held up. Feeling she had accomplished a lot for one day, she drove back to the Cape through the cold darkness, taking the complicated route to the Dimola mansion with the unerring ease of a homing pigeon.
She arrived to find all the travelers returned and assembled in the huge drawing room. As she stood on the threshold of its brightly lit warmth it was like looking at a scene from an ultrasophisticated stage play. Wanda—a completely changed Wanda—was dominating the scene. Clad in a gold lame sheath that clung in all the right places to reveal the spectacular figure, she was standing before the roaring blaze in the great fireplace, vivid color in her animated face, her eyes sparkling with mischievous light; her husband and Annette were listening to her, appreciative grins on their faces. Inga was snuggled close to Steven on one of the deep sofas, talking quietly while fussing with his lapels or smoothing his hair, like a mother straightening up her child to have its picture taken. Steven did not seem to mind this fussing in the very least. Ann was sipping a drink, a thoughtful expression on her face, and only Maria on the same sofa was looking worried and unhappy.
At Penny's entrance Wanda stopped in mid-sentence and there was a moment's startled silence, as if they had forgotten all about her, then the men got to their feet and Alexander said cheerfully, "Ah, there you are. Dr. Spring, come on in and have a brandy to shake off the chill of the drive. I hear your worries are over and the case has been solved for you. Quick work by our local police, eh? I expect now you'll be in a hurry to get off to warmer climes."
Penny smiled vaguely at him, accepted the drink and took a seat by the worried-looking Maria. "You mean Eagle Smith? I'm so glad you are all here so that I can talk to you about that. You know him, of course?" She saw Wanda exchange a quick glance with Inga before her husband answered, "Why, no! Why do you think we know Em?"
"Oh, being a local boy I thought you almost certainly would." She was smooth. "But I do want to talk to you about him, since I am certain the police have made an honest mistake but one which, in the interests of justice, I am anxious to rectify. The young man is in prison and cannot raise the bail set, $3,000, I understand." She looked at Steven. "I was going to ask you if you would be willing to stand bail for him to get him out."
There was a startled silence, then Steven said in his mild, diffident voice, "Well, of course it is perfectly possible, though I don't quite understand ..."
Alexander seemed to swell, he glanced angrily at his brother, then at Penny; for the first time he looked dangerous. "Look here, Dr. Spring, what is all this about? Are you trying to implicate us. by any chance? If the court has set a high bail it means they consider him dangerous and don't want him out. Why should we interfere?"
"Because, like it or not, you are involved," Penny said calmly. "The young man won't talk as long as he is in prison, and I badly need to talk to him. One way or another I intend to get him out, but I thought it would be better for your own local image if you did it. There will be a lot of tension in the community over this arrest; the detective in charge of the case has not got him in prison because he thinks he is dangerous, but because he thinks he can break him down there—if he knew the least thing about Indians, he'd know this is a vain hope—and, not being a local man, he does not understand the rest of the situation."
"She's right, you know," Maria said suddenly, "they hate us around here. You could tell that at the inquest. Id never realized that before, but they do."
"Hate is a strong word," Penny said, though she was glad of the unexpected support. "I think mistrust is perhaps a better one. They're afraid your money and your power could be used to obstruct rather than bring about justice. Eagle Smith may not be blameless in other matters but, so far as the attack on Zeb goes, many—including some of the police—do not think he did it. If you set him at liberty I think it would be a good and wise gesture on your part."
"Then I'll do it," Steven said.
"Just hold on " Alexander began hotly.
"It is for me to say in father's absence," Steven cut him off, and the two brothers glared at one another in sudden mutual antagonism, as Inga plucked nervously at her husband's sleeve. He turned to Penny. "I'll arrange it first thing in the morning."
"Thank you. And, as you've gathered, I do not think the matter is anywhere near closed, so I shall not be leaving. However," she looked over at Annette, who had been totally impassive throughout the exchange, "I feel I have imposed on your hospitality long enough, so now that Ann is back I'll return to the cottage—if that's all right with you?" She looked at Ann, who nodded a startled affirmative. There was a tiny moment of silence before Annette answered, "You're perfectly welcome to stay on here, if you choose, Dr. Spring, but it is entirely up to you."
"Well then, I think I'll go up and pack."—Penny got up briskly, hoping to dissipate some of the tension in the room —"so that I'll be all ready when you want to go, Ann." Maria got up with her. "I think I'll go and sit with father for a while," she announced, and followed Penny out.
When the door was closed on the silent company behind them Maria turned to Penny. "Would you come and see father? I'm worried sick," she said urgently, "I badly need some advice."
Without waiting for a reply she hurried up the grand, marble-balustraded staircase, an intrigued Penny puffing up after her; then along a tapestried and antiqued corridor to two large double doors, where Maria signaled for silence. She slipped inside and a moment later one of the Portuguese maids came out with a shy smile at Penny and motioned her to go in.
Once again she stepped across the threshold into medieval Italy, the only incongruity being that the massive, canopied four-poster bed had been moved over to one side of the room and its place taken by a run-of-the-mill hospital bed with all its accoutrements. Maria was standing by it, looking down at the burly, still figure propped up in a sitting position. She motioned Penny to join her. "He's dozing," she whispered, "but before I wake him there's something I've got to tell you ... I think I may have done something terrible." And Penny saw there were tears trickling silently down the young face. "The others just treat him like a dummy, but I've been trying to stimulate him by telling him things I thought would interest him, anything to get him going again ... it's so terrible to see him just lying there..." Her voice choked. "I really thought I was making some progress, he was starting to try and say words again and there even seemed to be some movement in one of his hands. I could tell he wanted to get better. It was in his eyes. The doctors said that stroke was so massive it should have killed him, but he is so strong, so determined, that he came out of it. And be gives me this terrific impression of waiting for something. This was how he was, I should have said..." She gulped. "The other day I was telling him about the inquest and something I said then upset him terribly. The trouble is I don't know what. I was so scared I got Inga, and she was dreadfully cross, but she packed me off and got him calme
d down somehow. She's a good sort, she didn't tell the others what I had done. But ever since..." Her voice broke again. "It's as if he has given up hope. He isn't eating, he won't talk to me anymore. He just lies there with this horrible blank stare. Oh, I'm so frightened...!"
"What do you mean, talk?" Penny whispered urgently. "Does he actually say things?"
"No, not really talk. It's a sort of signal we've worked out. He can b link his eyelids. But before this he was beginning to try and say things."
"What things?"
"Well, he kept saying what sounded like 'Ann, Ann.' "
"Your step-mother?"
Maria frowned in the dim light. "No, I don't think so, because I asked him if he wanted me to fetch her and he signaled 'no.' "
"Anything else?"
"Nothing that makes sense. He'd say 'end-so' or 'and-so' over and over. Sometimes it was almost as if he was trying to sing. You know, like 'la-la-la.' "
Penny frowned too, for she could make no sense of it either. As Maria worried on aloud, she looked with compassion at the massive immobile figure on the bed. Rinaldo put her in mind of a fallen oak, for, even in his helpless stillness there still emanated from him an aura of power and solidity. "Does he sleep a lot?" she asked.
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