‘There is no proof,’ he agreed when Maestrangelo called him. ‘I’m just trying to understand.’
‘And you have understood. A dangerous character, that one. I arrested him myself.’
So he, unlike the Marshal, did remember the case clearly. A freelance photographer whose speciality was photographing fashionable people in their own homes. He chose the settings, examined all the suitable rooms, chatted to his subjects, putting them at their ease. The thefts were carried out after a discreet passage of time by professional housebreakers who were instructed in detail about what to take and even provided with photographs. Between the photo shoot and the theft, commissions were taken, using the photographs, from the discreet clients of equally discreet antique and art dealers. Until the photographer’s cover was blown on his arrest.
So, why not steal the householder? One big job and set for life.
‘But,’ the Captain added, ‘according to the information I’m getting on the family, it wasn’t a good choice. Oh, there’s the property, of course, and the business, but the business is expanding and temporarily overstretched, and property’s hardly ideal. Kidnappers want quickly available cash, discreetly invested hidden cash that leaves no traceable hole. His information about antiques might have been expert but his information on these people must have been wide of the mark. What do you think?’
‘I think somebody lied to him,’ the Marshal said.
‘I don’t follow you. Why tell him anything, in that case?’
‘People say things…for other reasons. Even the Contessa herself might have wanted to seem richer than she was. Perhaps photographers, like hairdressers…get women chatting.’
‘Didn’t you say there was just the one photo session?’
‘Just the one, yes. As far as I know.’
Arrangements were made for Leonardo Brunamonti, the detective, Charles Bendy, and Patrick Hines to be summoned to the Prosecutor’s office at four in the afternoon. It was made clear to them that there was no idea of attempting to press them for information about their actions, that instead they were to be informed of the state of the enquiry and any action planned on the part of the carabinieri in the interests of the victim’s safety.
‘Not quite true, of course,’ Fusarri confessed to the Captain, ‘but it should produce them.’
Unfortunately, it produced only two of them. Hines cried off with the excuse of a headache and the reasonable assumption that the other two would update him.
Fusarri phoned Maestrangelo.
‘Blasted man’s keeping the daughter under control. I don’t see what we can do about it short of arresting him!’
Maestrangelo phoned the Marshal.
‘I’ll go anyway,’ the Marshal said. ‘He doesn’t say much, as I told you. I’d be glad to see him without that detective chap, and I imagine I can organize a minute or two alone with each of them.’
‘Well, if you think it could be useful.’
‘I’ll try. I’ve lost the son, you see. That’s very bad. I’m sorry… I’ll go round there and try …’
He set out, on foot as usual, at a quarter to four. As he came out under the stone archway he fished for his dark glasses but the sunlight was intermittent today as fluffy white, grey, and black clouds gathered in the windless sky.
‘We’re in for rain, Marshal.’ It was Biondini, the curator of the art gallery, ready for the downpour with raincoat and umbrella on his arm. ‘I suppose you’ve heard the news?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The Corot stolen from the Louvre. I worry myself sick about our inadequate security arrangements but, you see, other museums have problems, too—and, of course, we have you on our doorstep and your Art Heritage Group down at the other end of the gardens to recover stolen paintings for us, so I shouldn’t complain. You’re looking blank—didn’t you see it on the lunchtime news?’
‘I wasn’t paying much attention, to tell you the truth…Where did you say, the Louvre?’
‘That’s right. The new part, you know. A lovely Corot landscape.’
‘A stolen landscape…Good. Something like that a bit nearer home would be just… good. Good…’
‘Marshal?’
‘Good afternoon. Thank you. Good afternoon. You’re very kind…’
Biondini always was very kind but if he got started he’d tell the Marshal more than he could manage to ingest about the stolen picture, and all the Marshal wanted was to know it was stolen. Very kind of him, that. Something nearer home, though. Still, that was for later. Piazza Santo Spirito first.
It was a shock to find the great studded doors of the Palazzo Brunamonti shut fast. There was a porter’s bell but he remembered the porter’s lodge as being disused. ‘Puzzled, he rang the porter’s bell.
Yes?’
‘Marshal Guarnaccia, carabinieri.’
The doors clicked open and he began pushing. Little wonder they had been habitually left open. They were a terrific weight, and there must be a lot of to-ing and fro-ing all day with the workshop being in there.
‘Who was it you wanted?’ So, there really was a porter now, and in uniform, too.
‘Ah, the Signorina Caterina Brunamonti. She’s expecting me.’
A lie but this man could have been employed by the son or Hines. He didn’t want the fellow calling up to announce him. T come by every day at this time. There’s no need to announce me and I know my way.’
‘Suit yourself, Marshal.’ Thank goodness, he went back to his newspaper. The Marshal took the lift.
As he stepped out on the second-floor landing, the apartment door was flung open and Patrick Hines rushed out, slamming it behind him. He stopped dead when he saw the Marshal, speechless, white-faced, his eyes horrified.
‘Oh God!’ He fled down the stairs as if pursued by devils.
The Marshal stayed still, staring after him, then approached the door. Hines could be found easily enough. If no one answered the bell, he would call for help and break in. He rang and waited. He heard no approaching footsteps but an almost imperceptible rustle made him go on waiting.
The door opened very slowly and before he saw anything the voice began, equally slow and cold as death, ‘I knew you’d change your mind.’
And then he could see her, barefoot, her long thin body naked where the frothy white transparent gown hung open.
When she saw who it was, her glossy red lips tightened and she slammed the door in his face.
Nine
The Marshal went down the stairs in the wake of Patrick Hines. He avoided the lift, preferring to go slowly. This was not because he wanted time to think. There was nothing to think. Apart from the physical shock of the young woman’s nakedness, it was only a question of recognition, of looking straight at what he had not felt up to seeing, much less naming. Her still, upright stance, her long pale neck turned as she fixed him with one bright eye. The poise of a snake fixing its victim.
But what did she want with him? What use could she make of him? And for that matter, what did she want from Hines? Not affection, not sex for its own sake. The chill that he had felt emanating from her thin white body made him shiver even down in the sheltered warmth of the courtyard.
The fountain was playing and the spring flowers smelled fresh in the warm air. Signora Verdi came out from the glass-fronted workshops. She must have spotted his arrival and had been watching for him to come down. He walked towards her. He needed to talk to her but not now.
‘Have you heard? Little Tessie’s had to be put down.’ She was crying, the tears rolling unchecked down her cheeks and under her collar. ‘It seems like such a bad omen. It gave us such a lift when she came home alive, and now—’
‘I understand how you feel. It’s a shame after the little creature had struggled so hard to get home. But it isn’t an omen. You mustn’t torment yourself like that. The Contessa—’
‘Is there some news of her? Is there?’
‘No—that is—there is news, information. Try to be patient. Thes
e things go on a long time. Concentrate on looking after things for when she gets back. You must have a lot of work.’ The woman’s face hardened. ‘You needn’t worry about that. Olivia will find everything as it should be as far as we’re concerned.’ She shot a black look at the porter’s lodge.
Yes, I believe you. I’d like to come and talk to you tomorrow—you didn’t see which way Mister Hines went as he left, did you?’
‘He mumbled something about getting a drink. He looked very upset. I suppose he felt the loss of Tessie as a bad omen, too. I needed to talk to him but he said he’d be back in a minute. He’ll only be next door at Giorgio’s …’
And who could blame him? The Marshal found him at the far end of the back room where all the other white tables and grey plush chairs were empty except for a couple of elderly lady tourists taking tea just inside the door.
Hines had what looked to be a large glass of brandy in front of him, but he wasn’t drinking it. Cigarette smoke eddied around him and he was lighting up again with trembling hands. His face was still ghastly.
‘May I…?’ The Marshal sat facing him. The two men stared at each other for a moment and then Hines’s face suddenly flushed dark red.
You surely couldn’t imagine—’
‘No, no … Not for a moment.’
Hines tried a sip of the brandy. ‘I feel sick, to tell you the truth…That she should have tried it at all I can understand. You hear of these things, and she’s strange—a lot stranger than Olivia wants to admit. But now … to do such a thing now, when…it’s inhuman! I suppose, in your job, you see weird things all the time…’
‘Yes. I do. But I can’t say I’ve altogether understood. What do you think she wants?’
‘She wants me in her bed, surely that’s obvious—in her mother’s bed, to be precise, which made it even worse. Marshal, she’s cleared out her mother’s room, been through all her private papers, thrown out some of her clothes, sold her jewelry with the excuse of—my God, I even found a rubbish bag ready to go out with her favourite records in it! She’s burying Olivia alive! She’s a monster! You saw that she’d sacked the maid?’
‘Yes…it’s an enormous house to run, too …’
‘Good Lord, Silvia didn’t run the house. She’s an affectionate little thing but all she was up to was looking after Olivia, especially when I was away. Cared for her clothes, made her coffee in the morning, a hot drink at night, looked after her when she had flu, massaged her neck when she was tense and overworked. There are cleaners to look after the house and also a non-resident cook, a local woman who’s been with the family forever. Silvia used to like to wait at table because she liked seeing the company but she wasn’t much good at it, poor thing. Olivia’s always treated her like a daughter, and on more than one occasion I’ve heard Silvia call Olivia “Mamma” by mistake. No doubt Caterina hated her for that. So now she’s been kicked out, and the Palazzo Brunamonti has a porter instead, the way a Palazzo Brunamonti should have.’
‘And the doors are kept closed. I see, yes.’ How many times had she said, ‘She might be dead already…’ and he had muttered something he thought would be comforting. ‘That’s why, then. Having you would be another nail in her mother’s coffin, another way of attracting to herself all the attention her mother got. I wish it were as simple to understand why she wants me around.’
‘That’s a good point. Why does she? She’s working out some plan of her own and nobody’s taking any notice. According to Caterina, nobody ever does take any notice of her. Poor Olivia’s always fallen over herself trying to give her attention.’
‘And her son?’
‘There’s never any need for her to worry about that sort of thing with Leo. They’re alike, they’re close, they’re both very talented. There’s an understanding there that doesn’t require any special attention and Caterina hates it. She’d do anything to make them quarrel. I used to try and tell Olivia, you can’t pretend these things. It doesn’t work and it can make things worse. All his life she’s insisted on Leo’s treading around his sister as though she were a land mine ready to blow.’
‘It seems to me she was right.’
‘Well, she was, but I still think Caterina should have been made to face reality, that all this protectiveness has only encouraged self-delusion.’ He sipped at his brandy. ‘I’ve never needed a drink so badly in my life. I’m sorry, can I offer you—’
‘No, no…’ The Marshal was glad to have arrived at such a moment. Under the influence of his private detective it was unlikely that Hines would ever have talked to him if he hadn’t had such a bad shock. He thought now of those unconvincing words of Leonardo’s about the little dog. 'That’s just me being sentimental. She needs constant care and attention, which we can’t give her. ‘They weren’t his words but his sister’s. Hines, asked for his opinion, agreed.
‘Word for word, you’re right. And what worries me is that after years of never contradicting her just to keep the peace, he’s now so distressed by what’s happened, so disorientated by the absence of Olivia, the rock on which everything was built, that he’s in a weakened state and, seeing her opportunity, the wretched girl is taking advantage of that to manipulate him. Her story is that Olivia is guilty of potentially causing their financial ruin. She omits to mention that they’d have been ruined years ago but for Olivia. She’s using this catastrophe to try and drive a wedge between them and persuade Leo not to part with what she calls Brunamonti money. I’m glad you saw what you did today because she’s our biggest problem as regards saving Olivia. I can’t imagine what she might do, other than not helping, but I don’t mind telling you I’m afraid.’
He drank off the brandy in one gulp and breathed deeply.
‘God, she frightened me today.’
‘I’m not surprised. But surely her brother will react, surely he’ll understand what Caterina’s doing.’
‘He’s an intelligent, sensitive person. He’ll understand, but he saw what happened to his father, saw him reduced to a starving, crazy tramp. He won’t dare turn on his sister because she’s weak like her father. He loves his mother but sees her as strong, indestructible.’
‘Does he have any idea of what she’ll be suffering, of the conditions she’s probably being kept in? People don’t, in my experience, ever recover completely after a kidnapping. And besides,’ the Marshal reminded him, ‘nobody is indestructible, and jealousy is very, very destructive.’
‘You’re right, and Caterina’s eaten up by it. Let me tell you something, Marshal: I often took us all out to dinner at a little restaurant we’re fond of, quite near here. Always the same place, almost always the same waiter, and every time the same thing would happen: He’d address Leo, myself, and Olivia by name—Olivia never used her tide—and ask if we wanted our usual choices, then he would turn to Caterina: “And the signorina?”
‘She would be white with fury. “They remember your names and never mine—and they should know by now that I don’t eat pasta!”
‘It was extraordinary, really, because they did try to remember and were always embarrassed, and, of course, the angrier and nastier she got, the more they failed to remember her, except as in impending embarrassment.’
‘I must confess,’ the Marshal said, ‘that I had great difficulty remembering her name and eventually had to write it in my notebook.’
‘Olivia has always suffered because of it. Her children are too old for me to play at being a father figure to them. I love her very much—I hope to persuade her to marry me—and I have a very relaxed, friendly working relationship with Leo. But Olivia is protective of Caterina, and though I don’t really have the right to interfere—I don’t interfere—I have tried to convince her that it doesn’t help.’
‘If it’s jealousy,’ the Marshal said, ‘nothing helps. I’ve seen murder committed for it.’
‘You don’t think—you’re not saying—’
‘No, no…She’s not involved in this, not deliberately. No. But given her… we
akness…she might have been an unwitting source of information. Not very accurate information, if you understand me.’
‘Making herself out to be richer and grander than she is, you mean?’
‘Yes. It may be, you see, that she takes after her father, who had, they say, not much grip on reality. And if she’s also greedy for attention…’
‘Marshal—what is your name?’
‘Guarnaccia.’
‘Oh dear—after what we’ve just been saying. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right. People aren’t expected to notice me.’
‘Hm. Very clever.’
‘No, no … I’m not clever at all.’
However, he was not so stupid as to ask any questions about the communication they had received and how they intended to respond to it, or to let on that he knew where Leonardo Brunamonti and the detective were. He took this opportunity to try and explain something of the business logic of today’s kidnappings, of how a professional kidnapper was only too glad to deal with other professionals, whether private mediators like their detective or the State, instead of emotional, unreliable relatives. If their detective acted as drop man, he would deliver unmarked money and have no interest in capturing the criminals. He was being paid to save Olivia so his job was simple. He facilitated the success of the kidnapping. That of the carabinieri was to cause the kidnapping to fail, capture the kidnappers, and save the victim’s life.
‘In that order?’
‘Officially in that order, yes. But…’
‘I’m grateful for the “but.” I’ll take the rest of the sentence as read. I realize there are things you shouldn’t say.’ They were nearing the river. Before them was the rising span of the Santa Trinita Bridge, flanked at this end by the marble figures of autumn and winter. Huge fluffy clouds, some a menacing dark grey, some pure white, touched with pink and gold highlights, drifted on an uncertain wind to brighten and darken the stucco and stone of the great houses on the opposite bank.
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