The Last Enemy

by Grace Brophy

  When he hadn’t showed up at her reception, particularly after she had followed up her verbal invitation with a written note, his message was pointed—not interested—or so she’d thought at the time. It was obvious now that she’d been wrong. She observed herself in the full-length mirror, turning to view herself from all angles. Black set off her dramatic coloring to perfection. She ran her hand across her stomach, still flat and firm. She was in her prime, and very soon she’d be director of a regional museum. Was he aware of her family’s Borghese connection? He must know, she reasoned; he had been with her father for more than an hour. She smiled secretly. He could do a lot worse than to align himself with a descendant of Camillo Borghese.

  21

  “TOO BAD THEY don’t have a butler,” Piero said, as he and Cenni walked toward the Piazza del Comune. “Then we could pin it on him, and we wouldn’t have to worry about checking alibis.”

  Cenni laughed, remembering Piero’s addiction to TV police dramas, which no doubt had prompted his use of the American jargon. His favorite show was Hawaii Five-O, with its sugarcane plantation murders and beach bum hangouts, a show that Cenni had seen only once, at Piero’s urging. It had absolutely no connection to police work—probably why Piero likes it so much, Cenni had concluded.

  “Did any of them have an alibi that we can check?” Cenni responded. “If so, it slipped past me.” As Cenni knew, the perfect alibi, substantiated by ten unimpeachable witnesses, is a staple of murder mystery novels but rarely of investigative use. He had learned from experience that perfect alibis are extremely rare and usually suspect. But in Rita Minelli’s murder, he was faced with a first. He had five possible suspects—six, if he counted Lucia—and probably more to come, and so far not one of them had produced an alibi that could be substantiated.

  The count was in the library between 3:00 and 6:00 and no one had seen him.

  The countess was in the parlor—no doubt eating bread and honey, he thought—and no one had seen her.

  The maid was in the garden hanging out the clothes and had seen no one.

  Artemisia was in her room—perhaps the maid had seen her, perhaps not.

  Paola had taken a walk between 4:00 and 7:00 on one of the country lanes that surround Assisi. She had seen no one and assumed, therefore, that no one had seen her.

  Sophie Orlic was at home the afternoon and evening of Good Friday—alone and unobserved.

  Only Concetta, who was at home with her husband, two children, his mother, and her father, had offered an alibi that could be substantiated. Which makes perfect sense, Cenni thought, since she’s not a suspect.

  John Williams, the alleged boyfriend and the person Cenni was on his way to interview, lived in an apartment on Via San Gabriele, a few hundred yards above the Piazza del Comune. It was the warmest day that they’d had in a week, and even though it was now close to 5:00, the Piazza was still crowded with Easter Week tourists enjoying the last rays of the dying sun. Those who had plenty of euros in their pockets or were too proper to relax on public monuments sat at tables drinking their coffees or glasses of wine. The college students, surrounded by their ubiquitous backpacks, congregated on the fountain steps, competing for space with the pilgrims who had come to Assisi to observe Easter Week. The fountain crowd was mainly drinking bottled water, but a small group of students was sharing a bottle of wine, trying to appear inconspicuous but without great success. They’re quiet enough, Cenni thought. They have nothing to worry about. He knew many of the Polizia Municipale in Assisi by name and found them to be an amiable group, practicing sound police policy. Don’t bother the tourists unless they bother you!

  “I’ll buy you a coffee,” Piero said, interrupting Cenni’s thoughts, steering him by the elbow into the Bar Sensi, assuming, as he always did, that the invitation was accepted. Cenni took his coffee and Piero an apple tart to the back where they could have some privacy.

  Cenni, who always appreciated good coffee, savored his caffé macchiato before speaking:

  “With luck, the American boyfriend will confess as soon as we read him his rights, and we can all enjoy our Easter dinner tomorrow, but I’m not counting on it. I’d be surprised if Batori finds evidence of rape when he does the postmortem on Monday. I doubt that a man, particularly a boyfriend, would fake a rape. Why draw attention to himself?”

  “It could be someone with a Machiavellian mind, someone who hopes we’d think it wasn’t a man,” Piero said. “But for my money, it’s the bitch,” he added, referring to Artemisia. “What did you find in that book while I was outside playing sweeper?” he asked.

  “Inspector, you flatter yourself,” Cenni responded laughing. “You don’t have the timing or the speed to be a sweeper. And if you keep eating those apple tarts, you never will. But you did a great job keeping Casati out of the library. I’d just replaced the manuscript when he walked in. As to what I found, I need to check further to confirm my suspicions, but it looks as though the future director of the Galleria Nazionale may have neglected to credit some of her sources when she published her book on Artemisia Gentileschi.”

  “Credit her sources!” Piero responded incredulously. “Probably all the university students in this country do the same. It’s not even a crime, is it?”

  “No . . . at least I don’t think so. But it would be viewed that way by the art crowd. Worse, in light of the noses that were put out of joint when her book was first published. That manuscript contains inventory lists connected to various court trials that were held in Rome between 1609 and 1614. If the inventory of paintings that I found is authentic—and I believe it is—then it’s a list of the paintings that were submitted as exhibits at the Tassi rape trial in 1612 . . .”

  “Rape!” Piero cried, turning a number of heads his way. He lowered his voice. “Rape? I thought we were talking about a catalogue of paintings.”

  “Agostino Tassi was a Florentine artist, a friend of Orazio Gentileschi—who was Artemisia Gentileschi’s father and a painter himself—her teacher in fact. Orazio charged Tassi with raping his daughter and then refusing to marry her. Tassi denied the charge, and it went to trial. During the trial, Tassi challenged Artemisia’s abilities as a painter; even swore under oath that he’d been teaching her the rules of perspective on the day he was said to have raped her. The list of paintings that I found in the manuscript—the one that the maid claims Minelli and her cousin were arguing over yesterday— is an inventory of paintings provided by Artemisia Gentileschi to the Roman Court in 1612—I can only assume, to substantiate her knowledge of perspective. Three of the six paintings were later attributed to Orazio, the father, sometime after his death, or perhaps after the daughter’s death. The record wasn’t set straight for centuries, not until our own Artemisia published her monograph, A Woman’s Art.”

  “So what’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, if the Signora had stated where the information came from, but she didn’t. In her book, she demonstrates through painterly technique—style, treatment of subject, use of color—accompanied by a good dose of hubris, that the three paintings were executed by Artemisia Gentileschi. She does this without a single mention of her lucky find. In no place does she acknowledge that she became aware of the incorrectly attributed works because she’d stumbled upon the inventory from the rape trial. If the existence of that inventory got out, particularly after her self-aggrandizement, it would ruin her chances for that directorship.”

  “I still think that’s a ridiculous motive for murder,” Piero responded, “but I’d like to read about this rape. Where can I get the book, Alex?”

  Cenni laughed. “Collecting clues, Piero? I’ll ask my grandmother if you can borrow it—in the interests of justice, of course. And on Monday, I’ll ask some sources in Rome to check the archives. Even if I’m right, it’s going to be damned near impossible to prove if the document I found in the count’s library is the only one in existence. But if Artemisia Casati murdered her cousin, then someone must have seen her outside the
house yesterday evening. That’s where you come in. I want you to obtain a picture of her. You’ll find one in the archives of La Giornale dell’ Umbria; one of their photographers was at her reception four months ago. Get it today, and if they give you any trouble, tell them to call me. Show it around in the stores and restaurants that line the streets that go to the cemetery. The locals probably know all the family on sight, but very few locals work in Assisi these days, not since the earthquake. Make sure that you show it to the same people who were working yesterday. In fact, while you’re at it, get pictures of the entire family. They were all at the reception that night and I’m sure they were all photographed. You can get Orlic’s and Minelli’s pictures from their soggiorno applications. And assuming Minelli’s boyfriend applied for a soggiorno, you can get his picture the same way. Otherwise, we’ll confiscate his passport. I’d tell you to be discreet, but that’s going to be difficult in a town where the family is so prominent.”

  “Have you any idea how many streets in Assisi lead to the cemetery?” Piero asked plaintively.

  “A half dozen, maybe more,” Cenni answered dryly. “Start with the most likely ones first, those that connect directly to Porta San Giacomo and Porta Perlici. And if you have no luck at the restaurants, start canvassing the neighbors. There’s always someone hanging out a window. Get whatever help you need, but I want this inquiry finished as soon as possible, by end of day tomorrow. People forget quickly. If you need help, ask Sergeant Antolini. She knows Assisi very well,” Cenni added, straightfaced.

  “I’ll do that,” Piero responded, equally straightfaced. “But what about Minelli’s papers? Did you find anything there?”

  “I think so! Her will was in a sealed envelope that the forensic detail found in her room. The wax seal was unbroken. I suppose that could have been faked, but I don’t think it was. The name of her attorney was printed on the outside of the envelope, and the initials on the wax seal match his. I called his office in Brooklyn from the library—on Casati’s dime but all I got was a message that he’ll return on Monday. If the will is the last one she executed, then except for a small bequest to a cousin in the United States and a somewhat larger one to some Italian priest—oddly enough, there’s no last name or direction for the priest—she’s left everything to her uncle. The will was dated and executed on the third of June, probably right before Minelli left the United States.”

  “How much?” Piero asked.

  “It doesn’t list her assets. But if what Amelia Casati tells us is true, it’s a hefty sum. Remember, she said they had to mortgage the house when her mother-in-law died, to pay off Livia Casati. That was only a few years ago. So the family must have been hard up for money then. If Umberto Casati knew what was in his niece’s will, that definitely makes him a suspect, particularly if he needed money. When we get back to Perugia, you can run a check on his finances.”

  “What about the granddaughter? She was more nervous than the rest of them put together. And she admits that she was out of the house from four o’clock on. Do you think she’s hiding something?”

  “Everyone’s hiding something. But we’re looking for a murderer, and we don’t really care if a suspect is cheating on his taxes or his wife so long as the cheating has nothing to do with the murder. The first we leave to the finance police, the second to the wife (or the brothers if she’s from Sicily) . . . but try to convince a suspect of that. Maybe the granddaughter is dating a married man and doesn’t want nonno to know, maybe she’s on drugs, who knows? But you’re right, she was nervous. Ask Rome to run a check on her. That’s where she’s been living for the last two years.”

  “What did you think of the story she came up with when you asked about her meeting with Minelli in Cascia? It doesn’t make sense,” Piero added, anxious to keep the commissario talking while he finished his second pastry.

  “It makes sense to me. She meets her cousin accidentally in the Basilica and they have a coffee together. She votes Communist and prays to Saint Rita, not a contradiction in this country! I’d wager half the people who vote Communist light candles to their favorite saints the night before an election. Finish up, Piero,” Cenni added, standing up. “We’ve kept the American waiting long enough. I can’t give you a butler, but perhaps the boyfriend will do.”

  22

  THE AMERICAN BOYFRIEND, as the police referred to him, lived above a shop that sold fruits and vegetables. The proprietor, who rushed to the door as soon as he saw them pass, greeted them with a “Buona sera” and the news that the American was upstairs with the police. He then walked out of the shop, leaving his three customers to weigh their own produce, anxious to get some news about the murder to share with his neighbors. Cenni was afraid that he’d follow them up the three flights of stairs to Williams’s apartment, all the time murmuring platitudes, some deploring the terrible tragedy that had visited Assisi, others offering assistance to the police, and the remainder a string of apologies if by some illluck he’d rented his apartment to a murderer. “Not that Signor Williams would hurt a fly,” he added. He finally stopped at the first landing, although Cenni could still hear him talking from below as they buzzed for entrance to the American’s flat.

  Inspector Staccioli, who had been sent to act as dogsbody until Cenni arrived, admitted them to the apartment. He motioned to a man sitting on a chartreuse flowered couch and then returned to his chair by the door and to his newspaper without saying a word. Still sulking, Cenni thought. Williams looked up when they entered the room and gave them a tremulous smile, a wavering mix of anxiety and sorrow, the latter reflected in the pallid skin and bloodshot eyes of someone who’d recently been crying. He was something of a surprise to Cenni, perhaps because he knew Rita Minelli’s age and had expected a man in his forties. He’s no more than thirty, Cenni thought, probably younger. He had the thin, almost translucent, skin of the Irish, sand-colored hair, light blue eyes, and delicate but nondescript features, the kind of face one sits across from in an airport or a doctor’s office for thirty minutes or more, yet can’t remember ten minutes later.

  Cenni introduced himself and Piero, and for the second time that day, offered his condolences. From the blank response in Williams’s eyes, he concluded that the man spoke very little Italian. The commissario had learned English as a child from his grandmother and decided to forgo the use of a translator. He began, as he usually did, with preliminary questions, asking the who, what, where, and whys of Williams’s life and, finally, for a description of his friendship with Rita Minelli. The answers surprised him, considering what had been previously said or implied by the Casati family.

  Williams told them that he was Canadian, “Not American, as everyone in Assisi insists on calling me. Italians seem to think Canada is the fifty-first state. Some Americans do, too ” he added with a rueful smile. He said he was in Assisi doing research on a group of ecclesiastic maps in the Basilica library. He explained that in the Middle Ages European maps were more ecclesiastic than cartographic, adding that he was writing a book on the influence of the Catholic Church on cartography. He said he had a small fixed income—15,000 Canadian dollars a year—but it was more than adequate for his needs. He had met Rita when he first came to Assisi in December. She was a good friend, and he’d miss her a great deal. “She’d helped me in just about everything,” he added. “She even found me this apartment.”

  Cenni looked about him. Two tiny rooms, an open galley kitchen and the slightly larger space they were in, one small curtainless window looking out on a narrow alley, and the only decorative item, a bad reproduction of Saint Francis preaching to the birds. The furniture, typical of what landlords think suitable for tourists, was cheap and barely serviceable. The only upholstered piece in the room was the flowered sofabed on which he and John Williams had been sitting for the last fifteen minutes. It was, Cenni decided, not only the ugliest couch in memory but surely the most uncomfortable. Out of curiosity, he asked Williams what he was paying by the month.

  “Five hundr
ed euros,” he replied, “not including electricity.”

  No wonder the landlord was so quick to reassure me that Signor Williams wouldn’t hurt a fly, Cenni thought. Tenants who open their pockets for picking don’t arrive on one’s doorstep every day, although, in Cenni’s experience, Americans with easy money were the exception to this rule. He supposed he’d now have to add Canadians to the list.

  When Cenni broached the subject of sex, Williams blushed a violent red. “Rita was forty-five, I’m twenty-six,” he said, insisting that they’d been good friends only. “Rita may have had other male friends,” he added, turning red on red. “I can’t say for sure. If she did, I don’t know who they were . . . are,” he amended, in confusion.

  Asked about his whereabouts on Good Friday, he told Cenni that Rita had visited him for two hours in the afternoon and had left shortly after 4:00.

  “Two hours is a long time for an afternoon chat,” Cenni said. “What did you talk about?”

  “Just things,” Williams responded, a slight tic pulsing below his left eye. “You know the things friends talk about. We usually went together to Sunday mass at San Stefano’s, but Rita thought maybe for Easter we should go to the Basilica. And she was nervous about the Good Friday dinner with her family. Her uncle is . . . was always picking on her. She was worried that he might be rude to us if we chose the wrong fish for dinner. Things like that,” he finished lamely.

  Tics can be as reliable as lie detectors—more reliable, Cenni thought. He’s telling half-truths. They talked about more than just their choice of church on Easter or the correct fish to eat on Good Friday.

  Williams concluded his statement by accounting for his time the whole of Friday evening. He’d left his apartment immediately after Rita to attend confession at San Stefano at 4:30—“I was first in line”—and, later, to hear five o’clock mass. When he exited his apartment building, about 4:20, he saw Rita at the top of the street walking toward San Ruffino. “It was the last time that I saw her alive,” he said, and his voice shook. Cenni nodded in awkward sympathy.