Chapter 25
“Where in Italy?”
“That I don’t know,” Delouette said. “Just visiting some Italian boutiques that buy his work. Gilbert has some regular customers over there, scattered between the frontier and Rome. He’s a good salesman, you know. And his Italian is perfect, because that’s where his parents came from.”
“You’re sure about this. He’s in Italy now.”
Delouette nodded. “He came into the bank yesterday afternoon to buy gas coupons for the trip.”
Gasoline prices in Italy are higher than in France. But people traveling to Italy can purchase coupons before crossing the border, entitling them to gas at French rates.
“Gilbert said he was running short of cash,” Delouette added. “So he told me was going over there for a few days with a new stock of his jewelry, to try to make some sales.”
“Did he take Odile Garnier with him?”
Delouette didn’t know her name. I showed him her picture. He said, “Oh, his girlfriend. I met her once, when they were down here together in February. But I don’t know if he had her with him this time. I didn’t see her, and he didn’t mention it.”
But Dominique Veran had seen them together. Anyway, Gilbert Lucca remained my best lead to Odile. And he was now in Italy—somewhere.
I got some five-franc pieces from Freddie, put them into the pay phone at the rear of the Piccadilly, and called Fritz.
I explained the situation and asked him, “That Carabinieri major you know in Milan—does he still owe you a favor?”
“Romano Delisio. Yes, he does. And there is Colonel Diego Bandini, of the Carabinieri in Rome, who owes me another. I imagine I can persuade both of them to circulate official inquiries about Gilbert Lucca’s whereabouts in Italy. That is what you have in mind, I suppose.”
“You suppose correctly,” I told him.
“Naturally. Italy strictly requires that hotels—and every other kind of establishment taking in guests—register their patrons’ identity papers and promptly pass the information on to the local police. Since the rise of terrorism in that country, the regulation has been enforced more stringently than ever.
“At this time of night,” Fritz pointed out, “I’ll probably have to contact Delisio and Bandini at their homes. Then we have the rest of Saturday night ahead of us, and tomorrow is Sunday. A difficult time to get prompt responses from local police.”
“Ask your Carabinieri officers to slap an extremely urgent tag on their inquiries,” I said. “And I do realize that means we’ll owe them a large favor.”
“Which they will collect, eventually. Perhaps with requests that will be most uncomfortable for us.”
“I don’t see any alternative, Fritz.”
“Nor do I, unfortunately. Even so, you can’t expect an answer before sometime tomorrow—or Monday. I suggest you go home and get a sound night’s sleep. Taking proper precautions, of course.”
* * * *
Which was what I did. When you’re on an investigation it’s a good idea to pack in as much sleep as possible whenever the opportunity presents itself. You never know when you’ll have to go two or three days without any.
I approached my house with care, gun in hand. After a wary reconnaissance around the exterior in the dark I let myself in by the patio door even more cautiously. None of the opposition lay in wait for me. I checked every room to make sure. Then I relocked the patio door and switched on the burglar alarms for the doors and windows. Nobody was going to get in that night without my waking in time.
Nobody tried. I guessed that meant the opposition couldn’t spare anyone to flick me out of the race. All their manpower would be focused on hunting for Odile Garnier.
I fervently hoped they hadn’t found out yet that Gilbert Lucca had driven down here with her—and was now across the border in Italy.
* * * *
I slept late Sunday morning. When I got up I took the gun from under my pillow and carried it into the bathroom, leaving it on top of the toilet tank while I had my shower. Then I took it into the kitchen and made myself breakfast. Normally I prefer to go out to eat when there’s nobody home with me. But I was waiting for that phone call.
The clouds had drifted away during the night. The sea below was tempting. But it’s impractical to take a gun for a swim. Instead I worked off the tension of waiting with some strenuous garden preparations.
I’d collected a pile of sizable rocks beside the toolshed the week before. The rest of that morning I spent hauling them, one by one, down to the slope just below one side of my patio, where I planned to make a narrow terrace for flowering shrubs.
One advantage to doing that particular job, at that particular time, was the unobstructed view I got of every approach to the house. It was hot in the sun, and I worked stripped down to sneakers, old tennis shorts, and my shoulder holster. Wearing a gun while gardening is not too comfortable, but it was soothing for the nerves, under the circumstances—somewhat like a Linus blanket.
I got a pickax and shovel from the shed and devoted an hour to digging the trench. Then I manhandled the rocks into a row inside it to hold the soil in place and dumped dirt back in, tamping it down until each rock was securely anchored.
By then I was grimy, drenched with perspiration, and hungry. Still no phone call. I took another shower and made myself lunch. After I’d eaten I made a couple calls of my own. Not to Fritz. When he had anything to tell he would call me.
My first call was to St. Roch Hospital in Nice. I asked for Laurent Soumagnac’s room. The last time I’d called there I’d gotten a nurse. This time he answered himself.
His voice was cheerful and strong. “They’re letting me go home tomorrow. Better get in practice, Pierre-Ange. I’ll be whipping you at flipper again soon.”
“According to my count,” I told him, “I’m some twenty games ahead of you at this point.”
“The devil you are. I’ve been beating you two games to one for over a month.”
I hung up, relieved about his condition and spirits, and decided this was my day for phoning hospitals. The second was the clinic in London. After being paged Arlette came on the line. Her father had come through the stomach operation with surprising strength, considering his age, she told me. “If he continues to hold up like he is, I’ll be able to leave him for a while and get back to work.”
“Give him my best,” I said, not totally insincerely.
“I will. By the way, your mother flew over from Paris to lend him some moral support before and after the operation. She still doesn’t forget he saved her life, after all these years. A remarkable woman.”
“Remarkable.”
“She was somewhat surprised that you weren’t here, too.” Arlette said. “I explained to your mother about your being too involved right now with an important case.”
“Thank you. And give Babette my regards.”
“I’ll give her your love,” Arlette said. She understood, as well as Fritz did, the vagaries of the emotional weather between Babette and me.
I went back outside to do some more work on the new terrace. When I was halfway across the patio the phone rang. I returned to the living room and picked it up. Fritz Donhoff was on the line.
“Gilbert Lucca was registered at an inexpensive pensione in Genoa last night,” he told me. “Before he left there this morning he phoned ahead and reserved a room at a pensione in Florence for tonight.” He gave me its name.
“Single reservation,” I asked him, “or for two?”
“Single. She’s not with him.”
I cursed softly as I hung up. It wasn’t good. But I didn’t have anything else. Just Gilbert Lucca.
I switched on my answering machine. My overnight bag was already packed for the drive into Italy. I picked it up and was at the door with it when the phone rang again. I hesitated. The machine wouldn�
�t take over until after the third ring. On the second I went back, picked up the phone, and switched off the machine.
It was Egon Mulhausser calling.
“My daughter—” he started to say, and then his voice choked up. He sounded very near to crying.
“I’m getting closer to her,” I told him quickly, to calm him. It might not even be a lie—but it wasn’t something I would have put a heavy bet on.
“She called me,” he said thickly.
That brought me to instant attention. “When?”
“Sometime this morning—while I was at the restaurant. She phoned our house. Probably because she didn’t want to give me a chance to say anything. She left a message for me on the answering machine. I just found it when I took an early break from our lunchtime business.”
“Where did she call from?”
“I don’t know,” Mulhausser said, his voice getting thick again.
“All right, take it easy. What’s her message?”
“My answering machine only records one minute on each call,” he told me, exerting control. “Odile called twice in succession. I’ve recorded them on a regular cassette player so you can hear it all without the interruption.”
“I’m listening.” I heard the click of the player being switched on, very close to the phone. And then I heard her voice for the first time. A very young voice, halting and with an occasional tremor in it.
“Papa—this is Odile calling. I have to go away and I don’t know for how long. Maybe I won’t ever be able to see you again. If I don’t… I just want to be sure you know…it won’t be because I hate you. I don’t—that was long ago.” There was a second’s pause, as if she were searching for the right way to say what she wanted to. “I was a stupid kid. Now I’m older, I know how things can go wrong in a person’s life. I know it’s not your fault Mama was killed. If I acted badly when you drove me to Paris that night—it wasn’t because I still blame you for that…
Again a slight pause, this time because the answering machine had cut her off and she’d had to make the second call. When she came on again her voice was very small. And she was crying.
“I was just very ashamed that night. When I needed someone and realized you were the only one there I could depend on to help me. There are only two people in the whole world I can count on completely…and you’re one of them. And that made me think about how horrible I’ve been to you for so long.
“Goodbye, Papa… If we don’t ever see each other again, please forgive me. I’m so sorry… I was such a rotten daughter…”
There was the sound of her hanging up the phone. When I spoke to Mulhausser again there seemed to be something wrong with my own voice. “I’ll find her,” I told him.
I carried my bag out to the Peugeot and headed for Florence.
Chapter 26
You’d have to get very unlucky to have your car searched crossing the frontier from France into Italy. Especially if you show a U. S. Passport. Unless the control posts have a specific alert on you or have orders to do large scale spot-checks. And it’s easy to detect the latter ahead of time by the massive blockage of angry motorists.
So the gun I’d stashed back in its secret rear-seat compartment didn’t worry me much. Even so, I didn’t try to cross via the high-speed autoroute. There are too many border guards assigned to that major crossing point. They can take turns, half of them playing cards inside their control buildings while the other half amuse themselves stopping cars to give their sense of authority a little exercise.
Instead I went through the end of Menton by way of Boulevard Garavan, a winding two-lane road that brings you to the oldest and smallest control point, halfway up the slope between the sea and the autoroute. It’s the Pont St. Louis, a short bridge spanning a deep ravine that forms a natural separation between the two countries.
The two guards on the French side were having a conversation inside their little building, and they waved me on without bothering to come out. On the Italian side of the bridge I held up my passport and the guard motioned for me to keep going. Americans heading into Italy with their money are given every encouragement to move on to where they can spend it without delay.
As soon as I got to Ventimiglia, the first town in Italy, I did cut up onto the autoroute. On that side of the border they call it an autostrada, but it’s a continuation of the same: a multilane toll expressway built to carry you over long stretches with a maximum of speed and a minimum of scenery. South of the border half the autostrada runs through a series of long tunnels. Arlette Alfani once kept count: 168 of them. In and out of the tunnels, I reached Florence in just over four hours.
It was a little after eight, with a low sun casting a reddish-golden glow over the square towers and Tuscan rooftops of what has to be one of the two or three loveliest Renaissance cities of Europe. Gilbert Lucca had booked his room at a pensione called the Villa Romana. It was on the Via dei Neri, behind the Uffizi. He hadn’t arrived there yet.
The pensione’s proprietor, Enio Pasqua, was a lanky man with sandy hair and an elegant nose. With the Florentine economy so dependent on foreign visitors, a pensione owner has to speak a couple of extra languages. Pasqua’s were German and English, which was a help because my Italian was not that good. He told me Gilbert Lucca had phoned an hour ago to say he wouldn’t get there until late that night, around eleven. He didn’t know where the call had been made from.
Like the army, detective work involves a lot of “hurry up and wait.” Popping in a couple of paperback books when I packed for a trip had long ago become automatic. It was the best way to pass the stretches of waiting. I’d gotten most of my education that way, while working. You don’t get to read much in college—you’re too busy figuring out exactly how your professors want their exam questions answered.
I stuck the book I’d brought along in my jacket pocket and went to dinner.
Florence is a small city, and its central streets were constructed long before automobiles were invented, making it a much easier place to walk than to drive. I walked to the Ponte Vecchio, the five-hundred-year-old, shop-lined pedestrian bridge. A triumph of respect for aging beauty over the demands of expediency. The only bridge across the Arno that the retreating German army didn’t have the heart to destroy in order to slow the Allied troops in World War II. They blocked access to it instead, by blowing up the houses at both ends.
I crossed the river and walked to Giovanni’s, across from the fifteenth-century church of Santo Spirito. Most of the good Florentine restaurants that don’t dip into your wallet too deeply are on that side of the Arno. I found Giovanni’s steaks as thick and juicy as I’d remembered them.
Afterwards I strolled back across the Arno to a pleasant bar on the Piazza della Signoria. I passed the rest of my evening’s enforced wait at a window table with a brandy and my book.
The one I was reading at the time was Gregory of Tours’s History of the Franks. I was up to the year 590. With Queen Fredegund, who had recently attempted to strangle her daughter, having three noblemen chopped to mincemeat with axes at her banquet table. While her country’s common folk were struggling to survive one of their harshest years of famine and floods, earthquakes and roving mercenaries, arctic winter and bubonic plague.
In a way it was comforting reading. A reminder that people’s lives nowadays were no more trouble-prone than they’d ever been.
But in venerable Florence I didn’t need the book for that. All I had to do was look out the bar’s window. At the piazza where Savonarola burned Botticelli paintings his Christian purity crusade considered indecent; and where he himself was later burned to death for being an infernal nuisance. Or across at the Palazzo Vecchio, where people who’d plotted to assassinate Lorenzo the Magnificent were tossed out the tower windows with hangman’s nooses around their necks.
None of which did much to relieve the pressure of my having to just sit
there and wait while Mulhausser’s daughter was in desperate trouble and I still hadn’t found her.
* * * *
At eleven that night I returned to the Villa Romana—and found the pensione’s proprietor scowling and shaking his head.
“Gilbert Lucca phoned ten minutes ago. His van broke down. He and a friend are trying to fix it. He will stay with his friend tonight. Now he says he will come in the morning. By bus if the van can’t be fixed by then. Because he has appointments with shops, and he—”
I interrupted him with as much restraint as I could manage. “Where was he calling from?”
The question puzzled Enio Pasqua. “I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask where his friend’s place is?”
“No. That’s not my concern. My concern is the room I held for him, when I could have rented it to someone else. Now it’s too late for that. I lock the doors at midnight.” And I had another frustrating wait ahead.
I took Gilbert Lucca’s room and slept.
* * * *
Gilbert Lucca arrived at eight the next morning.
I was having the pensione’s breakfast of coffee and buttered rolls, in the small dining alcove off the smaller lobby, when he came in. He was carrying a lot of weight: two black salesman’s cases, hung from his strong shoulders by thick straps, and a canvas bag in one muscular, long-fingered hand. He set them down and told Enio Pasqua that he was Gilbert Lucca.
After that he was speaking in rapid Italian. I had to concentrate to get some of it. He was apologizing for the previous night. His van required further repairs. He’d finally had to leave it with is friend in Siena and had come to Florence by bus. He expected to stay for one night.
I interrupted him in French. “We’d better have a talk before you decide anything.”
He turned and frowned at me, trying to decide if he knew me. “I’m sorry,” he said politely, switching to French, “but I’m afraid I don’t—”
Get Off At Babylon Page 15