I sniffed.
It simply smelled stale and old. I put a finger to it and then put the finger in my mouth. There was a bitter taste, a horrid taste.
Recklessly, I bit off a tiny piece of it, rolled it about on my tongue. Why was I doing this? I didn’t know. I felt the crumb melting in my mouth and, suddenly scared, went to the bathroom and spit it into the bowl. But of course it had mixed with my saliva. I kept spitting and then swallowed a glass of water. Wild imaginings came naturally to me, and I was imagining at a great rate.
I faced myself in the mirror, told myself to calm down, and went back to bed, snapping out the bedroom light and then the lamp in my room. The sheets, once again, felt cool and delicious, and I drifted off.
Sweat, between my breasts and beading my forehead, woke me. I rolled over, groaning. The knot in my stomach was tying me up so that I could scarcely move. I lay, gasping for breath, the nausea flooding through me in waves. My head felt as if a pile-driver was bludgeoning it.
I fell off the side of the bed, landing with a thump, but I didn’t feel the hurt of it, only that ghastly nausea, the blurred vision, and my head pounding, throbbing. I had to get to the bathroom …
Somehow I did. And once again, crouching on the tiled floor, leaned over the bowl. The contents of my stomach found their way into it. I thought I’d expire with the pain in my head: my eyes were tear-filled. They felt bloody.
Poisoned, I thought, sagging back, my head against the wall. Poisoned …
Like the dog.
And then I leaned over the bowl again. It was so excrutiating, so horrible. It was terrifying. It was agony.
I don’t know how long I sat there, on the cold tile, waiting for the next seizure. Perhaps an hour. When I was able, at last, to drag myself back to bed, I was as limp as a sick cat. And now, I thought, as I lay in bed again, I knew. The cookies that lovely little girl had carried in her pretty little basket had been lethal. She hadn’t taken them from the family table, but had found them on the grounds somewhere. There had been someone who intended the dog, Paolo, to eat them, and then die. But Eleanora had found some of them too, and had “saved” them, along with her other “secrets.” Damn it, I thought, writhing with the stomach ache … hadn’t that awful person, whoever he or she was, realized that a child might come across them?
If that beautiful little girl had indulged herself … in her innocent greediness, eaten one of the cookies …
She would have died in agony, beyond help, beyond salvation …
Who could have done this horrible thing?
I had a childish thought. I want my mother.
No, I thought tiredly, trying to sleep. It’s too late for that. I was grown up now and, anyway, she was too far away. I was on my own. No longer a child. My battles were my own, from here on in.
I turned, and sighed. I was so tired, so damned tired. And because of that, at last I slept. My limbs relaxed and my eyes closed. Until the bright sun, streaming into my room, snapped my eyes open.
Warily, I moved a bit. I was weak, but my headache was gone and so was the nausea. Mainly, there was anger. Why should anyone have wanted to harm a little dog? For what reason, to what advantage? I remembered Paolo’s glassy eyes, the foam of blood on his muzzle. It could have been me too. It could have been that lovely little girl. Or anyone.
But why, but why?
Chapter Seven
When I was dressed I hunted up Lucrezia, who was coddling eggs in the kitchen, and told her that I had a recurrence of my “tummy trouble.” Thereupon I was given some more entero-vioform, another dose of Fernet Branca and inside half an hour was feeling considerably better.
After breakfast, in the garden with Elizabeth, we discussed the household needs and, as she had said she would, had made out a list. She gave me the address of a drogheria, a grocery, where I would find fruit and vegetables, and that of a shop which sold meat and fish, both on the Via Cerretani. Then she gave me the keys to the little blue Lancia.
I had my map with me, but first I had to drive down that precipitous, winding road. At least I was driving, and could go at my own pace. I was ultra-cautious, particularly when the road opened up, where there were no houses, to show the plunging descent far, far down below. There was only a two-foot road barrier, of stone, between my car and the seemingly bottomless chasm below. But there were no other cars, though I honked warningly at each curve, and then I was at the foot, on terra firma, going through the old city wall, breathing normally once more.
I crossed the river at the Ponte delle Vittoria, drove along the Lungarno and found myself heading for the Via Tornabuoni, close by. I had made a quick decision … impulse, perhaps, but on the spur of the moment I decided to talk to Signore Predelli about the things that were puzzling me. I had, yes, a vivid imagination, was well known for it … but it hadn’t been imagination that had made me deathly sick after a taste of a cookie given to me by a small child.
Signores Predelli and Pineider should know what had happened … after all, they were the executors of my aunt’s will. I parked the car in the Piazza di Trinita, and then crossed over to the lawyers’ building. It was only a little before eleven, a cool, clear morning, though the sun was rapidly heating up the day. I went up in the lift and the girl at the desk recognized me at once.
“I don’t have an appointment,” I said, “and if they’re too busy to see me I’ll understand. Would you ask, please?”
“Certainly, signorina,” she said, and picked up the intercom. A second later Signore Predelli came through the door to the waiting room and kissed my hand. When I was in his office he sat me down, and after some small talk I told him what had happened.
“First the dog,” I said. “And then me. Well, what do you think?”
“And the child had them?” He looked stunned.
I nodded. “She had something else too,” I said. “A handkerchief of my aunt’s, covered with dried blood. I took it away from her, along with one of the cookies, as diplomatically as I could.” I said again, “What do you think?”
After a silence he said, “I don’t know. It certainly seems very strange to me. Could I see the handkerchief, please?”
Of course I didn’t have it with me, and I told him so. “It’s in my room back there,” I said. “But you can take my word for it, the discoloration on the handkerchief is unmistakably blood.”
I got up. “I mustn’t take any more of your time. But, in a way, you and your partner are my only links with home. So I thought you should know. In case — ”
When I heard what I said, which echoed in my ears, I was shocked. In case …
In case I should meet with another “accident?”
But it was ridiculous! What had happened to me was gratuitous, and had not been intended for me. I became brusque. “For some time now,” I said, “I’ve had the impression that you and your partner know something I should know too. Don’t you think it’s time you told me about it?”
He looked greatly astonished. “But, signorina,” he said, “I can’t imagine what … your conjectures astound me … you are on holiday, and should be enjoying yourself. When you go home, I hope you will take many snapshots with you, of Firenze, and show them to your family. Meanwhile, simply have a good time. Why not? This is a lovely city, a beautiful countryside.”
“Yes,” I said. “But with a dark side. I think you know what I mean.”
“No,” he said, smiling tentatively. “I don’t.”
“If you don’t, or pretend not to know, I have nothing more to say.” I got up. “And obviously I must settle for that.”
He rose with me. “Yes,” he said, smiling gently. “It is better that way.”
“You’re practically telling me to keep my nose out of things,” I said angrily.
“I didn’t mean to convey that,” he said, and his face was still and quiet. “Of course, signorina, if something should happen that might upset you, you must get in touch with us immediately. It goes without saying that my partner
and I have your interests at heart.”
“How kind of you,” I said ironically, and a few minutes later was out on the street again. I was annoyed and disturbed … Signore Predelli hadn’t leveled with me. He had put questions into my mind, where there were already questions. But he hadn’t resolved any of those I had come to him with.
If something should happen that might upset you, you must get in touch with us immediately …
Exactly what did it mean? Only that there were reservations in his mind … and it was as far as he cared to go. Damn them all, I thought and, driving recklessly, braked my car and parked it in the Piazza de Repubblica.
I got out and went to the shops Elizabeth had told me about. I bought the supplies, stowed them in the back of the car and then walked over to the Piazza san Giovanni and sat down at a table in one of the numerous sidewalk eateries there. I ordered a tosta and birra, a lightly-toasted sandwich with Italian ham and springy cheese, and a small bottle of beer.
It was right across from the dead center of the city, the Duomo, with its gilded dome, the octagonal Baptistry, and the divine belltower Giotto had designed. I was in the very heart of one of the loveliest cities in the world. The beer was cold, the sandwich tasty. I was just lighting a cigarette, after finishing this light lunch, when I heard the loud voices. They came from a table rather far away and at first I didn’t think anything about it, as Italians are ebullient people, with a tendency to throw their arms about dramatically and, when excited, raise their voices to several decibels.
Then, astonishingly, I recognized one of the men at the table. There were, in all, three gentlemen seated at an umbrellaed table which was, as a matter of fact, at an adjacent cafe. Several cafes ran together, side by side, and all appeared to be doing a thriving business. But then, of course, I knew by now that Italians enjoyed food, the company of others, and the sun, so the outdoor restaurants were always filled to overflowing.
It was Gianni’s brother I recognized, Benedetto Monteverdi. And watching him, with the others, I realized that there was an argument going on. That the two other men were tormenting him and that he was leaning back in his chair looking red-faced … and a little scared.
I surveyed the other two men. They were very dark, swarthy, with heavy black hair and hard eyes. They seemed to be Neopolitan, or Sicilian. They didn’t look, truth to tell, very nice. The word “Mafioso” came to my mind. Dramatizing again, I told myself.
But then …
A knife embedded itself in the wooden handle of the umbrella. I could see the cold flash of steel, even hear the thud as it hit the wood, splintering it. Several persons, near me, gasped. By now the group was the focus of attention. At a table near that one, a man rose, leaning forward, staring … and a waiter stood, at attention, neither moving from left to right, simply looking fixedly at the three men.
I had a glimpse of Benedetto’s face. It was ashen, quiet and still, with a gray pallor. Then suddenly the man who had thrown the knife pulled it out, folded it within itself, and stuck it into a pocket. He and his friend got up, said something in low voices, and walked away.
Benedetto Monteverdi was left alone.
He looked quickly about, saw himself the cynosure of all eyes, looked down again, pulled a wallet from his pocket, threw down some lira on the table, and walked quickly away.
The table was empty now.
I paid my own bill, left a three hundred lira tip, and went back to the car. If I had wanted drama, I had had it today. I was sure those men had been threatening Gianni’s brother, and then I remembered something Gianni had said.
“Drinks too much, gambles too much …”
Yes, I thought. It could be like that. Benedetto, at ecarte or chemin de fer, had lost great sums of money. And now he couldn’t pay. What did a newspaperman earn at his job?
He couldn’t pay.
It was all wildly dramatic. That knife, flashing in the sunlight, quivering in the wood spine of the striped umbrella …
I drove back home. By now, I had become used to the snake-like road. Almost casually, I managed the steep ascent. My trouble was still when the stretches of open territory loomed into view … and I saw the abyss below, the yawning chasm thousands of feet down. It made me dizzy, and I concentrated on not looking at it, but instead keeping my eyes strictly on the dusty road I was driving.
Practice made perfect, I told myself, zooming into the gravelled driveway and pulling to a stop: I had done it once again. “That’s a frightful road,” I told Lucrezia, the first person I saw, and she smiled sympathetically.
“Si,” she said, grinning at me. “You were frightened?”
“Scared out of my wits,” I admitted. “One wrong turn and it would be the end. Doesn’t it ever bother you?”
“No, because I know it so well,” she answered, and asked if I had seen the other car in the driveway. I had. “To whom does it belong?” I asked.
“An American gentleman. He’s outside, with the signora.”
I went inside, loaded with my parcels. She helped me carry them into the kitchen, planking them down on the marbleized butcher’s block.
“Nice meat,” she said, turning the steaks and fillets over. “Bene, signorina. Very good.”
“Your stores are marvelous, I spent a fortune. You say there’s an American gentleman here?”
“Si. From New York City.”
“Well, what do you know?”
“Like you. You are from New York City.”
“Don’t remind me,” I said.
“Prego?”
“Nothing. Just a joke. Is he good-looking?”
Her lips reared back, showing the gums. She giggled, and pushed at my arm.
“And young too,” she said.
“Well, that sounds interesting.”
“I put these away. You go out now.”
“All right, Lucrezia. See you later.” I went out of the house and, walking across the lawn, saw Elizabeth standing near the wall that overlooked the valley. She was gesturing, looking very pleased with life in general, and beside her was the visitor from New York.
I wasn’t particularly surprised. As soon as Lucrezia had said it, I had a pretty good idea of who “the American gentleman” was. Neither was he taken aback. We smiled at each other, in a confidential way, as Elizabeth introduced us. That he didn’t want me to let on that we knew each other was evident from the quick, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
“This is Mr. Fox, from America,” Elizabeth said. “My guest, from America too, Barbara Loomis.”
We shook hands and, while the three of us walked and talked, Peter exclaiming over the beauties of the place, I was busy thinking. I felt I knew what had happened. Signore Predelli had passed on my morning’s confidences to Peter, who — there was no longer any doubt about it — was interested, perhaps as much as I was, in my great-aunt’s demise.
And now he was here.
I remembered something I should have tagged earlier. That first night at the Buca Lapi, the fragments of conversation between Peter and Signore Pineider.
“How far is it?”
“Six kilometers.”
And Signore Predelli had said to me, speaking of the villa, “It’s only about six kilometers.”
It had rung a bell but only subliminally. The repetition of the words. I was impatient to talk to Peter alone, and my opportunity came only a short while later. It was way past siesta time, and when Lucrezia came out, like a stern parent, and told Elizabeth that she must get her rest, my hostess agreed.
“I shall leave the honors to you,” she told me, and said she hoped Mr. Fox would come again. And then, as she disappeared into the house, Peter turned to me with a grin and said, “It is a small world, after all.”
“I suppose Signore Predelli mentioned my presence here. Oh yes, I saw you with Pineider, that first evening, at the Buca Lapi.”
“Did you. Well hello again, Barbara.”
“And to you. What’s your business here? No, don’t tel
l me, because I’ve already guessed. You’re an investigator for an insurance company in the States, and you’re doing a routine check on my aunt.”
He laughed. “Certainly not. Your aunt’s life was not insured. Her assets were so enormous that insurance, of that kind, would have been ridiculous. And by the way, Predelli and Pineider don’t know I’m here. I mean here talking to you. I didn’t think it necessary to tell them that.”
“So you do have some connection with my aunt’s estate.”
He nodded and I said, “I thought so. How about a drink, Peter?”
“You mean a real one? Not a sickish-sweet Strega?”
“I went shopping today and stocked up on gin. I can mix a mean martini. Twist or olive?”
“Olive by all means. It sounds wonderful.”
“I’ll be back in less time than it takes you to sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
“Life,” he said, gratefully, “can be beautiful.”
I left him stretching his legs and leaning his head back against one of the garden chairs. And whipped up a heady pitcher of my very special Big M’s. I put a few of the cheese croutons on a tray and went out again. “Now tell me,” I said, when we had wished each other a cheery Buona fortuna, “what’s this all about?”
“Nothing much.” He sipped his drink, said it was first rate and then put his glass down on the table. “I came here to unsnarl a few snarls. I represent an American firm of lawyers; we’ve been handüng some of your aunt’s affairs. Of course it’s an infinitesimal part of her holdings. The bulk of the estate is here, in Italy.”
“Did you tell Mrs. Wadley who you were?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“There was no reason for it.”
“You’re being mysterious,” I objected.
“Not really.”
“Not really? Then why didn’t you introduce yourself as yourself?”
“Because I am not concerned about Mrs. Wadley,” he said. “It’s you I’m concerned about.”
I laughed. “Concerned about me? In what way?”
He looked at me speculatively. “Did you or did you not get sick eating a bit of cookie?” he asked me.
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 72