Kiss of Hot Sun
Page 9
Philip made several attempts to talk, but in my new mood I let each conversational opening fall flat on its back. I preferred to ponder my own thoughts.
I wondered again why I stayed in Sicily; there was absolutely nothing to keep me. It was true that Adeline had begged me to stay, with fear in her eyes as I’d thought. But Adeline was such a superb actress that I wondered whether any of her emotions were ever genuine. Yet for all my anger, for all my humiliation at the hands of Philip and Giles, I knew I wasn’t going to leave the Villa Stella d’Oro—not just yet. Some buried spark of stubbornness made me determined to hang around and see what the mystery was all about.
Back at the villa, I tossed Philip formal thanks for the lift. While he garaged the car I stalked on ahead.
Adeline came hurrying across the hall to meet me. She was in a state of high drama, her silver hair disarrayed, her fists clenched in distress. I could see she had been crying.
This time her emotional display was genuine. This time it was not an act. I knew it.
“Oh Kerry darling! Thank God you are back! I’ve been almost out of my mind ...”
“What is it, Miss Harcourt? What’s the matter?”
She took a deep, steadying breath and looked at me with eyes that were huge and shadowed. There was real fear in her face, fear in the way she clutched at me.
“Carlo,” she whispered hoarsely. “It is Carlo ...”
“What about Carlo?”
“He is dead!”
“Dead?” I gasped. “But how...?”
“Stabbed to death,” she sobbed wildly. “Oh, it is so dreadful, Kerry. What shall I do?”
Chapter Nine
Adeline leaned on me heavily as I led her through to the salon. Gently, I lowered the old lady into an easy chair, and fetched a glass of brandy.
After a few protesting sips her colour became more normal. But she still lay flopped back in the chair, utterly exhausted.
Zampini was already there in the room, standing over by one of the windows. He watched us in silence for a while. I sensed his impatience.
“Such a fuss!” he burst out. “It is unfortunate, of course. But in Sicily such things must be accepted.”
I was appalled. “But this is murder! You can’t say murder is normal.”
“It is not called murder,” he grunted. “A vendetta between two families, a matter of honour. Life is held cheaply here.”
“But Carlo had no family,” moaned Adeline, “Just his mother and poor Maria, his aunt. That is all...”
“It makes no difference. These feuds are carried on to the bitter end.”
“Where did it happen?” I asked. “Here at the villa?”
Adeline shuddered. “Oh no, thank God! Not here.”
“It was in some back alley at Asiago,” muttered Zampini. “It appears he was on his way to visit his mother. It was a custom of his to go every week.”
Adeline had heard of Carlo’s death by telephone—a call from the police. An hour later they turned up at the villa, two young officers and Inspector Vigorelli himself.
I was rather dismayed that, like Zampini, the police chief seemed to take little account of the killing.
“These things,” he said with an indifferent shrug, “they happen.”
His men made a brief examination of Carlo’s room, and interviewed Maria and Luciana. I doubted if they gleaned any useful information. Both the women were prostrated with grief, weeping noisily and murmuring in constant prayer.
Presumably the inspector had come to question Adeline and the guests. But he seemed to be treating the occasion rather as another social call. Like any staunch friend at such a time, he nodded his head sympathetically and encouraged Adeline to talk of other things.
It was a tiny incident that brought home how Carlo’s death would affect our daily lives. Zampini had gone to pour himself another drink and exclaimed impatiently at finding there were no more bottles of tonic water. He stared at Adeline accusingly. She looked lost.
“Don’t worry, Miss Harcourt,” I said quickly. “I’ll see to it right away.”
It would be up to me to see that life went on smoothly at the Stella d’Oro. This was a guest house and the guests had to be fed.
Nothing at all had been done in the kitchen. I don’t suppose poor Maria had even thought of dinner tonight, and she hardly seemed in any state to cook.
Hoping it was the kindest thing to do, I packed her and Luciana off to their rooms, and started knocking up a simple meal. I was in the middle of grilling lamb cutlets and preparing a huge tomato and cucumber salad, when Cesare Pastore appeared. He came strolling casually into the kitchen.
“You here too?” I greeted him.
“I came to ask you to dine with me,” he said calmly, “and then I find all this excitement at the villa.”
“Didn’t you know about Carlo already?” I asked, surprised. “Your chief is here himself.”
“As I discovered. Inspector Vigorelli does not always keep me informed, I’m afraid.”
“But you’re his assistant.”
Cesare shrugged. “Ah well...”
I’d no time to talk right then. But when I tried to shoo Cesare out of the kitchen, he offered instead to lend a hand.
“Perhaps I can attend to the grilling of the meat?”
“Well thanks. But don’t you Italians regard such things as strictly women’s work?”
He grinned at me. “A good policeman must be ready to tackle anything. Between ourselves, I quite enjoy cooking.”
I left him guarding the stove while I laid the tables and fetched wine from the cellar. He kept up a steady flow of chat, calmly picking up where he’d left off each time I dodged back into the kitchen.
“This Carlo... Miss Harcourt is upset about him?”
“Yes, she’s certainly taking it very hard. I think she must have been quite fond of him.” I was recalling the way she had championed Carlo and forbidden me to criticise his work.
“And what did you think of him?” Cesare asked.
“Me? Well, he was a good waiter.” I spoke with some caution, as I hurriedly made butter curls.
“But you did not like him, I think?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t very much. He was rather lazy and could be insolent when he chose.”
“Then is it not surprising that Signora Harcourt kept him in her employment?”
“I suppose so. But he was Maria’s nephew—perhaps that was why. Poor Maria! And poor Luciana too; they are both dreadfully upset.”
“Luciana?”
"She’s the housemaid. They were going to be married, I think.” I stopped working and looked at Cesare uneasily. “I simply can’t understand these vendettas. It all seems so pointless and beastly.”
“Who has suggested that this was a vendetta killing?”
“Signor Zampini is sure of it. And your chief seems to have the same idea. It’s awful to think they can take it so casually when a man is knifed like that. Do you reckon you’ll find the killer?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
Later, while I was setting out the cheese board, he asked : “When did you hear about Carlo’s death?”
“After I arrived back from Taormina. Round about a quarter to five.”
“Taormina is a beautiful old town, is it not? Did you go down to the bay?”
“No. I only went to Giles Yorke’s studio.”
“Oh, yes?”
“He had promised to show me some of his paintings.”
“I see... And then he drove you back here?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I came back with Philip Rainsby.”
Cesare glanced up from the cooking. I don’t know why I bothered to explain how the switch had happened, but he seemed interested. I avoided mentioning that I was mad at Giles as a result.
Cesare noticed the omission.
“A man takes a young lady out and does not insist upon driving her home again? Is this how the famous English gentleman behaves?”
Cesare regarded me gravely. “The world would be a poorer place if we were not sometimes ‘silly’.”
He hung around all evening, and I was glad enough to have some help. While I was serving coffee, he even got down to washing the dishes.
“I thought you were supposed to be very busy,” I observed when I discovered him with his sleeves rolled up.
“I found I could take a few hours off today. Naturally I came to see you.”
“And landed yourself a temporary job as assistant cook and dish washer!”
He stood busily drying plates, smiling into my eyes.
It was past ten before we’d finished. Then Cesare came through to the salon with me. Zampini was there with the Blunts. They told me Adeline had gone to bed. Philip was also upstairs, apparently.
George Blunt buttonholed me at once. “I’d better tell you now, love,” he boomed. “Rosie and I will be leaving tomorrow.”
“Oh dear!” I was shattered to be losing any of the few guests we had. “Is it because of this business about Carlo? Everything will soon settle down again, you’ll see...”
He put a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Nothing at all to do with that, love. Just that our plans have changed a bit, that’s all. Nowt for you to fret about.”
I couldn’t really believe him. There had been absolutely no hint of them going, right up to this moment. I tried to persuade him to stay.
“You do understand, Mr. Blunt, all this fuss with the police was not our doing. By tomorrow everything will be back to normal.”
Zampini cut across me rudely. “If the signora and signore wish to leave, that is their affair. You will please not try to detain them.”
I had to admire my own restraint in saying nothing to that. But my expression must have said enough. Zampini reddened under his swarthy tan, and muttered a curt apology.
Cesare left soon after eleven, and I made my unhappy way to bed. I’d had plenty and more for one day.
But the day wasn’t over after all. I opened my eyes in pitch darkness to a quite unfamiliar sound. I seemed to be hearing it for a long time through a daze of half sleep.
A telephone was ringing somewhere in the villa. I realised it was a sound I’d never heard here before.
I put on the bedside light and glanced at my watch, Two-forty-five! Who on earth could be phoning at this hour?
The bell went on and on; a steady, inexorable summons. I slipped into my dressing-gown and hurried downstairs.
At first I couldn’t even remember where the phone was. I thought hard as I hustled along. Of course, it was in the lobby near the salon, where I did the flowers.
All this while I expected the ringing to stop. The idea of missing the call worried me for some reason. I had to get there in time.
It seemed ages before I reached the phone and grabbed it up. “Villa Stella d’Oro.”
An Italian voice gabbled much too fast for me to pick out even the odd word or two.
“Please, don’t talk so quickly...” I said anxiously. Then a phrase from a tourist handbook leapt into my mind. “Non parli tanto presto.”
But the operator had caught and understood my English words. “Signor Zampini is wanted... A call from New York...”
“New York!” I was astonished. “Did you say New York?”
“Si si. Please, is the signore there?”
Chapter Ten
Zampini was a long time on the telephone. I hung around just out of earshot. Surely something must be dreadfully wrong to bring a transatlantic call in the early hours of the morning?
Much as I disliked the man, I thought I ought to be on hand in case he needed help.
But when Zampini finally emerged, he was white-faced with anger. He brushed past me without a word, without even a glance, storming on up the stairs. I heard a door slam violently.
Bewildered, I switched off the light in the telephone room, closed the door, and made my own way upstairs. I was just going back into my bedroom when I heard voices. Or rather, one voice. It was Zampini, raging at someone in a fury.
I listened anxiously. At first I couldn’t make out where the sound was coming from. Not Zampini’s own room—that was away down the corridor. Then another voice, feebly protesting, fixed it for me.
“No, Guido. No!”
What an impossible creature Zampini was! To burst in upon an old lady in the middle of the night. And when she was already in a badly shocked state about Carlo. It was sheer heedless cruelty.
I didn’t care who he was. I didn’t care what he was so angry about. Running down the corridor, I barged straight into Adeline’s room without knocking.
The poor old thing was in bed. She had propped herself up on one elbow, blankets clutched to her throat.
Zampini was bending over her. Without straightening, he swung his head towards the door. When he saw me, his face crimsoned into still deeper fury.
“Go away from here!”
“I want to speak to Miss Harcourt.” Feeling a lot less calm than I pretended I walked round to the other side of the bed, and sat myself on the edge. Adeline looked up at me tremulously. I put a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked softly.
Her hand came up and covered mine, pinning it there. The gesture told me how much she needed support. “Perhaps you had better leave us, Kerry.”
“I shall stay here as long as you wish it,” I said stubbornly. I gave Zampini a challenging stare. “I don’t take orders from anyone else.”
He sucked in an impatient breath. “Tell the fool of a girl to go away, Adeline.”
“You had better do as he says, Kerry.” But I knew Adeline didn’t mean it. Those thin old fingers were still clutching tight to mine.
When I put my other arm around her shoulders I felt the violence of her trembling. I held her tighter, trying to be reassuring.
“I think you had better be the one to go, Signor Zampini,” I told him firmly.
“You say that to me?” His fat cheeks shook with anger, “How dare you!”
“My job is to help Miss Harcourt,” I said, with a sweet reason he certainly didn’t deserve. “Right now she needs rest. I don’t know exactly what your position is in this house, but I am asking you to leave the room, if you please.”
He looked as if he wanted to pick me up and fling me across the room. Shaken, I still found the courage to stare back at him defiantly.
After a bit he turned away. “Tell her to get out, Adeline,” he demanded for a second time.
The terrified old eyes found mine. I knew they were begging me to stay. “You must do as he says, Kerry darling.”
“No!” I chose to accept the message of her eyes. “Come now, Signor Zampini. Please...!”
“You interfering little bitch,” he shouted at me. Then he lapsed into a flood of Italian. I waited until he had run out of words before insisting again that he should leave Adeline’s room.
“If you refuse I shall go and fetch help.”
Fortunately for me, Zampini decided I meant what I said. He went straight to the door.
“I shall see you in the morning,” he snarled at Adeline. Then his savage gaze clamped on me. “And you! I shall have something to say to you tomorrow.”
But he shut the door with surprising softness.
I tried to be briskly persuasive with Adeline, like a nurse. “Lie down and let me pull the blankets up. You must be cold...”
Very meekly, she did what I said. I had an idea she was glad to be taken firmly in hand.
“Now, is there anything I can get you?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, darling. But stay—please stay.”
I fetched a chair and sat down close beside the bed. “You mustn’t let him upset you so much, Miss Harcourt.”
“You do not understand. It is not so simple.”
“Why not tell me about
it?”
I was cracking with curiosity. I longed to know why that wretched man had so much power over Adeline. Even more, I reckoned it would calm her to confide in somebody.
But she shrank away from the mere thought of telling me. “No, darling, do not ask me. I must not speak...”
Should I press her, I wondered, or let the matter drop? If I was going to protect Adeline from Zampini’s wrath tomorrow, I had better know as much as possible beforehand.
The strikingly bold colours of the room were sombre now in the shaded light of a bedside lamp. I glanced around, lost for a moment in my thoughts. The pictures on the walls jolted me back to my talk with Philip. They provided the inspiration I needed.
I plunged straight in. “Is the trouble something to do with forged paintings?”
She reacted so violently that I knew I’d hit the target dead on centre. She gave a little sob and her hands flew to her face.
“I suppose Giles told you? The idiot.”
“Giles?” I exclaimed in dismay. “Is he tied up in this, too?”
She looked bewildered. “Then he didn’t...?”
“It was just a stab in the dark, Miss Harcourt.”
Adeline chewed that over. “I see,” she said eventually. “When you saw me with the Blunts up in the attic, you put two and two together?”
I didn’t disabuse her. There was no need to drag Philip into this. Not for the moment.
I had a feeling that after the first shock Adeline was glad I knew. Her fear seemed to have lifted a little. She shook an arm free from under the blankets, and clutched again for the comfort of my hand.
“You must believe me, Kerry darling, there is nothing really wicked... What we are doing, it is wrong, yes. But...”
I tried to soothe her down. Judgements could come later, if need be.
“It all began as a joke,” she went on earnestly. “Not to make money; not with the idea of cheating people. I myself have never profited from it. My share I have always given to the nuns.”
“Let’s get this straight. You’ve been selling forgeries as genuine old paintings...?”
She was denying it hotly. “Never! Not once have I made such a claim. But if I sold a nice painting, and the buyer paid much more than he would have done simply because he thought he had found a Raphael, well...” A spark of humour flickered back into her eyes. “The price we got was not a tenth the value of a genuine Raphael—not a twentieth! So who was cheating whom, darling? Tell me that.”