‘Leo,’ murmured his sister, reaching to touch his shoulder, ‘we should ask the Marshal to sit down.’
The Marshal, seeing Leonardo’s eyes as blank as the day he had collapsed, considered this remark an adequate invitation and seated himself on a solid-looking straight chair right next to the detective. Then he waited. As he waited, his big eyes registered everything within view without his ever turning them on anything in particular. He was very aware of the dog basket not far from Leonardo’s feet, aware, that is, of its being empty. The grey-haired woman spoke with sudden loudness.
‘I think you should bring Tessie home. Whatever’s wrong with her she’ll heal better at home.’ She seemed to be addressing Leonardo, and when he didn’t answer she leaned forward and raised her pitch.
'Leonardo!’
'Caterina’s seeing to it.’
Caterina said very quietly, ‘She had to be put on a drip, she was so dehydrated, and it may have to be done again. It’s not fair to a sick animal with all those injuries to keep moving it about. It’s too painful. The vet’s keeping her this week.’
“You can’t leave her there for a week! She’ll die.’
‘It’s the best place for her and it might need to be for longer.’
'Leonardo! You can’t do that!’
There was no immediate answer. Leonardo leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands. Then he seemed to make an enormous effort to sit upright and speak.
‘I’d rather have her here but that’s just me being sentimental. She needs constant expert attention, which we can’t give her.’
It was odd, the Marshal thought, that this remark was clearly offered in good faith as to its content but that every word sounded false.
The detective’s hard-edged voice brought the subject to an abrupt end.
'I’m sure the Marshal will understand, Hines’—emphasis on the NCO rank, remark made across the Marshal’s head—‘that there is a meeting in progress here and that, since we are discussing the financial situation of the family, it’s byway of being a personal and private meeting. In fact, I feel bound to say that, for the moment, it would be better if these visits of his were discontinued since there’s a possibility that they could be endangering the Contessa Brunamonti’s life.’
‘I don’t agree,’ declared Caterina, giving Bendy a hard, bright glance. ‘It’s his job. He’s involved, and I—’
‘Please don’t worry,’ said the Marshal blandly. There was no point at all in his staying since they would say nothing in front of him. Better to let them talk and see what the daughter came out with later. He got to his feet and hoped that the unknown woman would show him out. Tense as she was, she was up and moving in a flash. At the door, that fierce stage whisper again: ‘Did you know about the maid’s being sacked?’
I… no. I thought she’d gone to visit her sister. She seemed so upset…’
‘She was. Upset about Olivia, I mean, but now she’s even more upset. Sacked. That’s why she’s gone to her sister’s. I don’t think her Italian was that bad—do you think it was that bad?—oh, by the way, I’m the Contessa Elettra Cavicchioli Zelli. I know your name, that’s all right. And, besides, you have to teach these Filipino girls to wait at table. Do you realize that some of them come from such poor families they’re lucky if there’s any food on the table at all, never mind worrying about which wineglasses are which, can you imagine? I feel so sorry for that girl I’m going to take her in and give her some work until Olivia—’ She stopped.
'We’re doing our best, you know.’
’You‘re doing your best? I’m not worried about what you’re doing! Unless you’ve got eight billion lire! I’m doing my best but it’s not going to be good enough and Patrick’s a darling but he doesn’t have a bean. I have to go. They’re listening. Bye;’
The door was practically slammed in his face. He was going to need time to recover from the impact of the Contessa Elettra Cavicchioli Zelli and he paused a moment down in the piazza to make a note of her name and then dab at his eyes as the sunlight started them watering. He put away the handkerchief and fished for his dark glasses. It was really quite warm, a remarkable jump in temperature of the sort which Florence specializes in and which, every February, sends half the population down with flu. Fat grey clouds gathering behind the sunny yellow facade of the church were a reminder that warm meant wet but for the moment it was pleasant to be out. The Marshal was glad of this regular afternoon walk between Piazza Santo Spirito and Borgo Ognissanti Headquarters and never more so than today…Elettra …well named. The woman was like a bolt of lightning and clearly in a temper, but with whom? The little dog seemed to be the chief provocation …and the weeping maid …Eight billion. Hm.
Captain Maestrangelo was in a meeting with the Colonel and had left a message for the Marshal saying that if there was nothing of note to report he would see him at the usual time tomorrow. The Marshal sent a carabiniere to knock at the Colonel’s door and stood in the polished corridor next to a rubber plant, waiting.
When the Captain appeared, he looked expectantly at the Marshal but there was nothing to be read in his expression. There never was anything to be read in the Marshal’s expression. He had received the Captain’s message and had presented himself, just the same. He was standing there. It was enough.
'Contact?’
‘Yes. A request for eight billion accompanied, I imagine, by the usual instructions but I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything other than the sum. I’ve lost them. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t assume that too quickly. The first contact is always a shock, frightening, but that’s all the more reason why they should turn to you once it’s sunk in.’
‘No. There’s that detective. He’ll be able to help them.’
‘Is he talking to you?’
‘No.’
‘But the ransom demand?’
‘A friend of the family let it slip. I think she’ll let plenty more slip if the detective doesn’t bully her.’
‘Does she seem liable to be bullied?’
‘Oh no. Then there’s always the daughter. She wanted me in on it but the others wouldn’t have it so I came away. She must appear to agree with them or they’ll keep her in the dark. I just hope the damage hasn’t been done. She shouldn’t have spoken out as she did today.’
‘Not very bright, I gather …’
T don’t know… Of course she’s upset, so …’
‘What’s the friend’s name?’
The Marshal consulted his notebook. ‘Contessa Elettra Cavicchioli Zelli.’
‘Ah yes. Fusarri mentioned her as a likely contact. A very rich woman. Will you wait for me up in my office until I finish here? I’ve got some names I want to give you. We need to concentrate on finding the planner.’
* * *
There could be little doubt about the author of this kidnapping once Salis had been eliminated as a suspect, and Salis was too clever and too experienced to permit the discovery of a hide-out before the completion of a job, or even after it except in the case of an imminent raid and consequent hurried flight. There was good reason, however, to wish it had been otherwise. With Salis there would have been no need to look outside the Sardinian community for his associates, and members of enemy clans reduced the possibilities even further. But Puddu had not only lived long on the mainland, he had lost sight of his origins and traditions. His criminal associates were legion and enemy clans the only element that could be eliminated with the exception of such of his sidekicks who happened to be in prison. The Captain’s men had come up with a list. Given the importance and high risk of the job, they had included only those men who had worked for Puddu before and who had experience of the kidnapping business. The resulting list had been shortened by the elimination of anyone currently serving a sentence, out on parole and reporting in regularly, or known to be elsewhere. The remaining men were under discreet surveillance as were all access points to the acres of woodland and scrub where Puddu might be hidin
g his victim. This last was the most difficult aspect of the job because the investigators were altogether at a disadvantage, knowing neither exactly for whom they were looking nor precisely where to look. There had to be traffic between the hide-out and the outside world for the provision of food and water and the passing of information but, should a feeder be spotted, any action at this stage could only result in risk to the victim. The only person it was safe to arrest was the planner, the contact between Puddu and his victim. Safe because he would have fixed his percentage and made his deal through an intermediary and would never know, unless things went wrong, who had done the job. He was, nevertheless, a valuable element to the investigators because someone with access to the Brunamontis could only make contact with Puddu’s world during a prison sentence and that contact was at the centre of a web which would reach out to some of the names on that list.
Up to this point, neither the investigators through their informers nor the Marshal through his talks with the family had come up with even the vaguest of possibilities by way of a planner.
‘Frankly, Guarnaccia,’ the Captain admitted, ‘I had more hopes of you than of them. What about this Contessa Cavicchioli Zelli? I have it that she’s a close friend of the victim’s and if she was in on the meeting you described then she’s going to be providing a good part of the ransom. She’ll be put on her guard by the London detective … what’s his name? Bently… so I’d prefer not to make any formal approach. She might well come up with a past boyfriend of the daughter’s, a resentful ex-employee. Whal; do you think?’
‘I’ll go and see her if you’ll give me her address. The employees …’
'Yes?’
‘Your men have questioned them.’
‘Of course. Except for a young designer from America, straight out of art school, they’ve all been there for years and are clean. We got nothing. Why are you insisting on this? Have you found out something?’
‘No, no … I only looked in there on my first visit to ask directions…’
‘If you think we’ve missed something, Guarnaccia, say so. Go and question them, by all means.’
‘No, no… Me…no. I’m no investigator…treading on people’s toes, no…There was just something. There was something.’
'So you said before. Then you did suspect somebody?’
‘No.’ The Marshal examined the hat on his knee, his left shoe, the window. T had a feeling they were all united, all loyal—-just a fleeting impression, of course. You’ve talked to them all…’
‘And got exactly the same impression. So, what’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know…yet. And now I’ve lost the son.’
You’re quite sure about that, are you, Guarnaccia?’
‘Oh yes. He’ll try and pay without us.’
You must try and convince him to let us mark the notes in return for non-intervention during the drop.’
‘This Mister Hines…’
‘What about him?’
‘He doesn’t say much.’
‘Some people don’t.’ The irony was lost on Guarnaccia.
This was the moment when any investigator would push him aside as hopeless and it was the most critical moment of all. The most nerve-racking. Just when the pressure was on, when the journalists were waiting outside every day, and the Colonel was growing increasingly annoyed at each morning briefing, Guarnaccia would slow to a stop. He would mutter something about being more used to snatched handbags and distressed old ladies and say he was hardly competent—which few but Maestrangelo would contest—and any attempt to get near him or question him was doomed to failure. He would settle down like a bulldog with a bone between its paws, silent and unaggressive. If you got close he emitted a faint but unmistakable growl. The Captain knew he must control his impatience, try and help him without either of them knowing what he needed. If he would only ask … or had he asked?
‘You think I should speak to Hines again?’
‘He doesn’t say much. I see him as a wealthy man. Compared to me … The Contessa Cavicchioli Zelli said he hasn’t a bean.’
‘As I said, she’s a very rich woman.’
‘Yes. As I told you, they don’t want me going round there anymore and I can’t force them … I need to talk to the sister alone.’
‘She came to your office once. Wouldn’t she—’
‘No. In the house. I want to talk to her in the house. I’ve lost them … I think the planner… I must talk to her in the house …’
The Captain was there now. ‘All right, Guarnaccia. Let’s assume that Prosecutor Fusarri is going to need to speak to Leonardo Brunamonti and Mister Patrick Hines in his office tomorrow—shall we say at four p.m.?’
‘And that detective. Will you excuse me?’ And at the Captain’s nod of release he was gone.
ITALO-AMERICAN CHIC
The Contessa label is the brain-child of Olivia Birkett, top model of the sixties, top de-signer of the eighties and nineties. After years of solid success in Europe, Olivia Birkett is now branching out. This year Tokyo, next year New York, and in the wake of that, she hopes, Los Angeles in her home state of California. What is her style secret?
‘History, I suppose. I married into a six-centuries-old family and found inspiration in the clothes of my predecessors—adapted to our modern way of life, naturally.’
And her success secret?
‘I’m good at clothes, yes, but what makes our clothes different is the input of my son, Leonardo, whose historical and art historical knowledge are the basis of each year’s collection. This is what defines the detail of our collection and its presentation, architectural setting, music, lighting, and so on.’
Olivia’s beautiful aristocratic daughter is also to be seen in the Contessa workshop.
‘Caterina has an elegance all her own, a fourteenth-century beauty, a twentieth century style, ideally suited to our clothes. I love to have her model for me but her interest in the firm at the moment is more on the managerial side.’
Facing page: Pearls on a gold lace web form the collar of a Contessa evening gown from the winter collection.
Above: Olivia Birkett and Tessie in the white drawing room of the Palazzo Brunamonti.
Photo by Gianni Taccola, Florence.
The Marshal let the copy of Style fall into his lap.
‘Dad? Can we stay up to watch the match?’
‘Ask your mother.’
‘We have and she said to ask you.’
‘All right’
And the two boys dashed back to the kitchen, suppressing their giggles.
‘Mum! Dad said we can stay up and watch the match with him if it’s all right with you. Can we? Go on!’
They settled one on each side of him and he hugged them close, pleased. The players rushed about on the green background to the rise and fall of the crowd’s noise, a comfortable background to the slow untangling of the more vivid images in his head.
‘Batistuta won’t really be transferred, will he, Dad? Giovanni says he will but I don’t believe it. Dad? What are you reading that for?’
‘Reading what? If you want to watch the match, watch it. If you start making a racket, your mother …’
It must have been a couple of hours later when he remarked aloud, ‘I’ve seen that name and I think I know where…’
‘What name? Salva?’
He stared at her. ‘Have the boys gone to bed?’
‘I should think they have. What were you thinking of, letting them stay up when it’s school tomorrow?’
‘Is it?’
‘Salva, what’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You look exhausted. Let’s get to bed.’
He fell at once into a deep sleep and imagined he’d been asleep for many hours when he heard himself say loudly, ‘Dogs and photographs.’
‘Dogs are what?’
He opened his eyes. Teresa’s lamp was still on and she was reading the Style magazine so it wasn’t so late. ‘Photographs …,’ h
e repeated, reminded as he saw it. ‘It’s all a question …’
‘A question of what? Salva?’
He was asleep again.
He fell asleep convinced that in the morning the mists would have cleared, allowing him to see clearly what was in front of his nose. He awoke refreshed. The mists had indeed cleared but what he was to see clearly had yet to present itself. He started his day with quiet deliberation, sitting in his office and calling Headquarters on the internal line.
‘Certainly, Marshal. Can you give me his place and date of birth? It will help me to find the file if it’s here.’
‘No, I can’t, but I’m betting he has a record, and since he lives and operates in this area his file must be there in the archives. Urgent, yes. The Olivia Birkett—yes. I’ll be here.’
Dogs and photographs. He must sit still and wait. Dogs and photographs. He sat still. Inertia at the centre of the web…pearls on a gold lace web…
The phone rang.
‘Marshal Guarnaccia.’
‘Maestrangelo. I have the address and phone number of Contessa Elettra Cavicchioli Zelli. Will you take it down?’
He took it down. Then he sat still.
The phone rang again.
‘Marshal Guarnaccia.’
‘I have that file for you. Do you want me to send it over there?’
‘No, just give me the gist and when he served his last sentence. He is out?’
‘Oh, yes, he’s out. Didn’t serve that long. Art thefts, villas around Florence—well, you knew that already, I imagine … released a year and a half ago, more or less. Anything else in particular that you want?’
‘His address.’
‘Current address Via Santo Spirito, number seventeen. Anything else?’
‘No, but don’t send the file back down to the archives, give it to Captain Maestrangelo, as from me. I’ll be in touch with him later. Thanks.’
To be truthful, his recollection of the case was more than a little vague but it hardly mattered now. There would be plenty of time to look into that, and better people than him to do it. Besides, where was the proof?
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