It wasn’t. First they had a light pasta — penne alia carrettiera, followed by lamb braised with wine, peas and rosemary. They were a relaxed trio. It was Creasy’s first night out since starting the job, and Felicia’s obvious enjoyment was infectious.
Elio was surprised at Creasy’s mood. It was a distinct change from that of a month before. He wasn’t loquacious or smiling from ear to ear, that wouldn’t have been Creasy, but he took Felicia’s good-natured teasing easily and even cracked a couple of dry jokes. Felicia wanted to know all about the Balletto household and particularly Rika, who was well known as a socialite and hostess. Was she really as beautiful as her reputation had it? Creasy affirmed it. By any standards, she was beautiful, and naturally so.
“Are you attracted by her?” Felicia asked with a disarming smile.
Creasy nodded without hesitation. Any man would be. It was just a fact of life. He pointed to her plate where the lamb was fast disappearing. “Just as the taste buds are attracted to fine food, or a special wine.”
“What about the girl? Is she like her mother?”
Creasy considered carefully, and the other two could see that the question interested him.
He decided that, as to her looks, she would turn out equally beautiful. It was already beginning to show. He thought her character might be different. She was more of an extrovert. She’s curious, he told them, curious about everything. But who knew? With her full blossoming she might change. Great beauty often brought inhibitions.
Creasy found himself thinking about the girl. Since the night he had explained about the boat people, she had asked him one or two other questions in a direct and open way, obviously keen to widen her knowledge. Just the day before, driving to school, she had asked from the back seat about “human rights.” It had become a big issue in the papers, with President Carter expounding on the subject and other statesmen jumping into the act.
He had answered that it meant freedom of the individual and the right of all to the basics of life within a community.
Again she had probed with well put questions until he had amplified that oversimplification, and they had arrived at the school with him talking about left and right-wing regimes and the meaning of democracy.
He had expected her to take up the subject on the way home, but she had remained silent.
His thoughts were interrupted by a man approaching their table. It was Vico Mansutti, who had come in with two other men.
“It’s Mr. Creasy, is it not?”
Creasy introduced him to Elio and Felicia and watched him turn on the charm, white teeth gleaming beneath the wide black moustache.
“You have excellent taste,” he said to Creasy. ‘This is one of the best restaurants in Milan. How was your meal?”
They all agreed that it had been excellent, and with a final flash of teeth at Felicia he rejoined his companions.
A few minutes later Zagone came over to offer them a liqueur, compliments of Mr. Mansutti.
“He’s charming,” said Felicia, after ordering a cognac. Creasy looked at Elio and a gesture of the shoulders, very Italian and expressive, told him that they agreed about Mansutti.
“A shark,” said Elio. “But a clever one. He’s building a big reputation. His contacts with government and business are solid. It’s also rumoured he has connections with the Mafia.” He made a wry face. “But that’s not unusual. These days it’s hard to find the dividing lines between crime and government and business. Incidentally, there’s talk that he’s having an affair with your boss’s wife.”
Creasy was surprised. Not that Rika might be having an affair, but that she would have picked a man like Mansutti. Elio’s next words offered an explanation.
“He’s apparently helping Balletto arrange bank guarantees to reequip his plant. There’s talk of Mansutti’s personal guarantee being involved. He’s very rich and it seems that Balletto Mills have a cash flow problem.”
It could be the reason, Creasy thought. He couldn’t see much standing in Rika’s way if her lifestyle was threatened. Elio’s words raised another question.
“If Balletto’s tight for cash, it’s unlikely that his daughter is a potential kidnap victim,” Creasy said.
Elio agreed and thought it might be a social thing. “A lot of Rika’s friends would have bodyguards.”
“You mean I’m a social asset?” asked Creasy dryly, and Felicia laughed at the idea. But Creasy remembered his short interview with Ettore and the whole thing made sense. Ettore was keeping his wife’s image burnished at a cheap price. It also explained why he was reluctant to spend money improving the security of the house. He had been pleased to find on his return from Paris that Creasy was repairing the fence and had cheerfully reimbursed him the small amount that had been spent for timber. However, when Creasy had suggested a modern chain-link fence and other measures, he had been decidedly unenthusiastic.
“Does your firm audit his books?” Creasy asked.
Elio shook his head. “No, but we hear things.”
Felicia snorted. “Hear things! Accountants are the biggest gossips in the world. Worse than a bunch of housewives.” She smiled at her husband. “It’s a little Mafia all its own, but they use pocket calculators instead of pistols.”
Elio nodded benignly in agreement and said to Creasy, “Perhaps she’s right. I suppose we do exchange information more freely than we should, but it’s for our own protection. Italian businessmen are very secretive, especially with the tax laws we have. An accountant’s ammunition is information — so we tend to scratch each other’s backs. Besides, it makes up for the boredom of looking at columns of figures all day.”
Zagone appeared and offered them more liqueurs, this time with his compliments, and by the time they left Felicia was slightly drunk and walked between the two men, an arm linked with each.
They paused at Mansutti’s table, and the three men stood up and exchanged introductions and pleasantries. One of Vico’s guests was an Englishman — dressed like a banker, very British in pinstripes and waistcoat. Vico made a point of telling him that Creasy was the bodyguard of the Balletto girl. “Very experienced,” he said, smiling.
Creasy felt irritation. He was a private man and didn’t like to be discussed by strangers.
Outside the restaurant Felicia kissed him on both cheeks and thanked him and made him promise that he would come to the house for a Sunday lunch in the near future.
“Yes, he’s much more relaxed,” Elio said on the phone. “I was surprised. He seems to be settling in. He even told a joke or two.”
Guido also was surprised. He hadn’t expected it to go quite that well. It was a relief. Creasy had been much on his mind,
“Does he get on with the girl?”
“He says she’s got an inquisitive nature,” Elio answered. “I suppose he tolerates her — otherwise it wouldn’t work.”
Guido said, “I can’t see him tolerating her if she pesters him with questions all the time.”
“Well, obviously she doesn’t,” Elio said thoughtfully, “but he did say she was curious about everything.”
Guido thanked him for calling and for helping with Creasy, and was assured it was no problem. Elio hero-worshipped his elder brother and would do anything for him.
Guido hung up, a little mystified. An inquisitive child with a relaxed Creasy was a definite contradiction.
Perhaps Creasy was getting old. Mellowing, even. Or maybe the whisky was addling his brain. Anyway, so far, so good.
Pinta had reached an impasse. She was conscious that to move on to the next step in obtaining Creasy’s friendship she needed a device. It was not enough to keep drawing him out with questions on subjects that interested him. It was not really a dialogue. She wanted to learn more about him personally — about his own life. They had reached the point when almost every day she could get him to talk — about politics or places or people. But he always remained remote himself, and she was wary of asking him personal questions.
She had quizzed her mother about his past and had learned the simple facts of his career. Rika had been reluctant at first because of the association with violence, but Pinta was adept at handling either of her parents and she extracted the information easily. Besides, Rika was proud of their bodyguard. She would tell Ettore that none of their friends had anyone who could compare. After all, Creasy had the Croix de Guerre, and many campaign medals and lots of scars and was an ex-paratrooper. Undoubtedly, Creasy was a feather in her social cap, and she was not shy about telling her friends of his past.
As a result of this, Vico brought up the subject when he next lunched with Ettore.
“How did you get him so cheap?”
“He drinks. He’s an alcoholic.”
Vico nodded in understanding.
“He hides it well.”
“That’s true, he drinks only at night, but he told me himself it affects him badly. Meanwhile, he can drive a car alright, and from outside appearances he looks competent enough.” He smiled complacently and said, “It was a good investment. He’s also a handyman. He likes fixing things.”
He told Vico about the fence repairing and other odd jobs Creasy did about the grounds and house.
Vico grinned.
“You would have to pay a carpenter more than you pay him. And Rika is happy. I saw her in Granelli’s the other day and she joined me for a cocktail afterward. She’s much happier now.”
“Yes,” agreed Ettore, “and it shows in other ways. She spends less. With her, being unhappy leads to a lot of extravagance — I suppose to compensate. She still comes into Milan to shop quite a lot but she doesn’t buy too much.”
Vico nodded wisely.
“Probably spends more time window-shopping.”
The two men went on to discuss business matters, Vico doing most of the talking.
So Pinta knew about Creasy’s past and tried to get him to talk about it.
She had taken to dropping into the kitchen after dinner even when her parents were home, and one evening she asked about the Foreign Legion. There had been an article in the newspaper about the Legion being sent to Shaba Province in Zaire.
He told her about the Legion, how it was formed and some of its history. She decided to press a little.
“Weren’t you in the Legion once?”
He looked at her sharply.
“How did you know?”
She answered innocently. “I heard my mother telling a friend on the phone, just after you arrived.”
Bruno looked up from the television.
“I was in the Army once — in the war. I was captured by Montgomery in North Africa.”
It was said with a touch of pride, as if Montgomery had effected the capture personally. Creasy nodded briefly and went back to his newspaper.
Bruno said, “If you were in the Legion, that makes us both old soldiers.”
Creasy looked up at him and a trace of a smile touched his lips.
“Yes — both old soldiers.” Then he stood up and went to his room.
Later, lying in bed, Pinta decided that a direct approach to resurrect old memories was not going to work. She could hear the music coming faintly from his room and she knew that before long she would recognize the song he always played. She knew what it was now. One afternoon while he was working on the fence she had slipped into his room and looked at the tape in the cassette player. It was always the last one he played at night. Linda Ronstadt’s “Blue Bayou.”
The breakthrough, when it came, was an accident, literally. Her parents were in London for a week and she was in the kitchen when Bruno came in and announced that a nightingale had nested in a bush behind the house. There were two chicks in the nest. It was barely light but she begged him to show her. The nest was high up the steep slope and, as she scrambled eagerly up, she stepped on a stone, turned her ankle and fell heavily against an outcrop of rock. Creasy was off to the left, just packing up his tools, when he heard her cry out.
She lay on her back, holding on to her side, her face twisted in pain. Bruno had scrambled down and was cushioning her head.
Creasy felt her ankle, his thick fingers surprisingly gentle. It was swelling, but he judged it was just a sprain. Then he took her hand from her side and pulled up her T-shirt. There was an abrasion just below the ribs. He carefully put his fingers on the ribs and probed very gently. She winced.
“Does it hurt badly?” he asked.
“Not so bad. It hurts more lower down.”
She pointed with her chin. “I hit the rocks there.” Her voice quivered as she tried not to cry.
“I think you’ve just bruised yourself,” he said. “At least you haven’t damaged your ribs.”
Maria arrived, puffing up the hill in a state of high anxiety. Creasy stopped her fussing and calmed her down. He decided to take Pinta into Como for an X ray just to be sure. Maria was to stay in the house in case her parents called. He told Bruno to stay with her, as the old man’s agitation would not help calm the girl. Then, being careful not to put pressure on her side, he picked her up and carried her down to the car.
Later Maria was to remember how gentle he had been, how reassuring. He could not be such a man, she thought, not as uncaring as he seemed. But in fact Creasy’s attitude had been an automatic one. In his life he had frequently dealt with wounded people, often terribly wounded. The first criterion was to calm them and reassure them.
The X-rays confirmed that nothing was broken, and the doctor bound up the ankle and gave her some pills for the pain. He agreed with Creasy that she probably had some internal bruising under her ribs, but nothing serious.
Back at the house he reassured Maria and Bruno, carried the girl up to her bedroom, and left while Maria put her to bed. Then he put a call through to the Savoy Hotel in London just in case Rika or Ettore phoned while he was out of the house. Maria would certainly overdramatize.
Rika answered and he told her of Pinta’s fall. No, she needn’t rush back. It was only a sprain and a bruise. The child could probably go to school in the morning as usual. Yes, he could give her their love. He hung up, and then went upstairs to see that the girl was comfortable.
She was sitting propped up against two pillows. Beside her was a stuffed brown bear, very battered. He sat at the foot of the bed.
“You feel alright?”
She nodded shyly.
He looked at the bear.
“Do you always sleep with that?”
She nodded again.
“What do you call him?”
“He has no name,” she replied.
Her hair was jet black against the pillow, her face very pale. The huge eyes looked at him solemnly. There was a long silence, and then he abruptly stood up. “The pills will make you sleepy. If you wake up with any pain in the night, take two more.”
He reached the door and turned.
“I spoke to your mother on the phone. They send their love.”
“Thank you. Good night, Creasy.”
“Good night, Pinta,” he said gruffly.
The pills made her feel drowsy. She switched off the light and hugged the bear and was soon asleep. She had lied to him. It did have a name.
In London, when Ettore returned to the hotel Rika told him of the phone call. He was in a rush to get ready for dinner with his agent and she stood at the bathroom door while he showered.
“You don’t want to go back?” he asked. “There’s a night flight to Milan.”
She shook her head. “Creasy said she’s alright.”
His hand groped for the shampoo and she moved to give him the bottle.
“It’s nice, isn’t it,” she said.
“What’s nice?” he asked, lathering his hair.
“Having a man like that in the house while we’re away. Maria would have panicked and I would have felt obliged to hurry back. And tonight’s dinner is important, no?”
He turned up his face to the wide stream of water pouring down from the huge, old-fashioned shower head. It
was one of the reasons he liked the Savoy. Their bathrooms were bigger than most hotels’ bedrooms, and the fittings matched the size.
“Yes,” he agreed, stepping out and enveloping himself in a huge white heated towel. “Very important. Roy Haynes is excited about the new range, and if he decides to promote it we could have a very good season here.” He moved to the basin and started to shave, draped in the towel like a Roman senator. She moved behind him and rubbed the towel against his back and shoulders.
“Promote it how?”
“In the press and at shows. They do it very well. But it costs a lot and he has to have confidence. I will press at dinner tonight.” He looked at her face in the mirror and she smiled at him.
“Leave the pressing to me. I’ll be very subtle.”
He smiled back and continued shaving. Yes, Creasy was a good investment.
They ate in Parkes, in Beauchamp Place. Ettore refused to eat Italian food in London. Not that there was a lack of good Italian restaurants, but, when he travelled, he liked to vary his diet.
Also, Parkes with its fresh flowers on the huge plates was a favourite of Rika’s.
Roy Haynes was another favourite, the kind of Englishman she liked. Big and bluff and well-travelled. It was no hardship turning her full powers of persuasion on him. He sat, eating and smiling, fully aware of her motives. He had already decided to give Balletto’s line a big promotion and tomorrow he would give Ettore a large order, almost twice the value of last season’s. In the meantime he kept his counsel and let the lovely woman opposite flatter and charm him. After dinner he would take them to one of London’s elegant gambling clubs, and before they left for their hotel he would be won over and give them the good news.
For Rika, such evenings were what life was all about. She felt useful and appreciated.
Man on Fire (A Creasy novel Book 1) Page 9