Daggers and Men's Smiles

by Jill Downie

  “Where did all this happen? Couldn’t you get some answers from people living in Fiesole or Florence?”

  “If that’s where it happened. But it didn’t. It happened, I think, at another house. A house that no one talks about, because they say there never was another house.”

  “Who says there was another house?”

  “Patrizia. She said it was closer to the sea, and claimed that she first worked for the Vannoni family in the Maremma, where she came from.”

  “Then it must be there.”

  “Unlikely, at that time. The Maremma then was a wild, uncivilized place. Patrizia may well have come from the Maremma, but any great house must have been on the edge of the area, to the north or to the east.”

  “So, Gil was killed because he told a fiction he thought his own, that was a fact about your family. What about Toni?”

  “Ah, Toni. An oversexed son of a bitch who would have sold his soul for the right price. I have asked myself whether he gave away something to — oh, I don’t know, somebody working on the movie — for forty pieces of silver.”

  “Who, Giulia — who?”

  This time it was Giulia who stood up, towering over Sydney. “Who. The big question, yes. I think — I think it could be Donatella. Oh yes, I think it could be. Not on her own, perhaps, but with the help of someone else. Gianfranco perhaps, although I think he has not enough courage. I think you, but especially Mario and Monty, should be careful.”

  “Shouldn’t you warn them?”

  “And have Donatella find out? That is why I cannot tell Moretti and you must not. He will have to work it out on his own.”

  “Why daggers, Giulia? It could be someone crazy.”

  “Oh, they are crazy all right — crazy enough to use a specific weapon, because they are saying something to those in the know. Come on.” Giulia pulled Sydney to her feet. “Let’s get you back to your hotel before the police send out a search party for you. And you know what is the only thing worth remembering from this conversation?”

  “To keep my mouth shut?”

  “That whoever it is, is crazy. That’s the only thing worth remembering, Sydney. Carry the key I gave you, always. No one in my family has keys to this place, and no one knows that you have one.”

  Night was falling when they left Giulia’s castello. Against the darkening sky the Martello tower took on a more sinister aura as its shadow against the ground reached out to touch the two women walking the Ducati to the gate. Sydney could hear the sound of her own breathing, swift and shallow with tension. Beside her, Giulia lengthened her stride.

  September 19th

  "She fooled you all right, PC Brouard — Mrs. Ensor doesn’t smoke. Fortunately she got safely back, and we know where she went because of how she got back. On a Ducati. We’ve also had her destination confirmed by the taxi driver.”

  The morning sun filtered in through the windows of the crowded incident room at Hospital Lane. The place was full and there was electricity in the air, which had something to do with the sensational nature of the investigation and more to do with the anticipated arrival of Chief Officer Hanley at any moment, and the real possibility of a clash of personalities between Moretti and the head of the forensics crew, Jimmy Le Poidevin.

  Jimmy Le Poidevin was a heavy-set man in his forties, short of both fuse and stature, given to bombast. His outbursts were usually because he objected to having his forensic conclusions and insights questioned by anyone, and because he tended to step out of his own field of expertise and interpret the medical evidence. Although Moretti knew this was tempting because there was no coroner on the island, he always attempted to rein in Le Poidevin’s flights of forensic fancy.

  Most officers at Hospital Lane tended to back off and leave him alone because he was good at his job, but Moretti saw that as no reason not to push from time to time. And Le Poidevin, being an emotionally volatile extrovert himself, had assumed that Moretti’s customary reserve hid a docile and acquiescent nature. Discovering in one spectacular confrontation that he was wrong did not stop him repeating the behaviour.

  Moretti transferred his attention from the mortified PC Brouard to Liz Falla, who was sitting beside him, her notepad open on the table in front of her. “DC Falla’s inquiries confirm that Gilbert Ensor took a taxi to the manor at about eleven-thirty, and the driver dropped him near the trailers used by the film crew.”

  “Yes.” Liz Falla took over, and Moretti was again aware of the depth of her voice. “The driver says he was, I quote, ‘Full of himself and on and on about himself.’ He doesn’t seem to have said anything too specific about what he was up to, but the driver got the impression he was meeting a woman. When I asked him why he said, ‘You don’t get in the state he was in about a bloke.’”

  There was a ripple of laughter in the room, quickly suppressed as Moretti held up his hand. “Because of the large number of people involved in this film project and the number of alibis and statements we have to check, I have Chief Officer Hanley’s permission to get some extra help. My main concern is that information we have withheld stays that way, which is why I have called this meeting. The second dagger, for instance. Go on, DC Falla.”

  From under her notebook Liz Falla pulled a handful of papers. “These are printouts of various Internet websites selling daggers of all kinds. The one used in the Albarosa murder, and the hotel patio and costume incidents, is a copy of a seventeenth-century Italian dagger in the Wallace Collection in London — almost. It is described as ‘designed for the thrust and is often viewed as the favorite of assassins,’ and it looks as if the attacker had these specially made for him, or her. The dagger in the Ensor murder is the genuine article, carried by some members of the Hitler Youth in the war, and that gets trickier. Not everyone selling something like this is that keen on publicizing it. I’ve checked with the Underground Hospital, the Occupation Museum, and La Valette Museum, and there’s nothing missing from their display cases. Nor has anyone made inquiries about purchasing a similar dagger. I was reminded more than once that there may be others in private hands on the island.” Liz Falla turned to Moretti, who took over.

  “Apart from the fact that DC Falla had to make inquiries about the Hitler Youth dagger, we have withheld that information and I want it to stay that way. As you know, the murder of Gilbert Ensor has attracted attention, and we have a few members of the mainland press on the island. Now, PC Brouard, a chance to redeem yourself — you’re a computer buff, I’m told, so I’m giving you the task of going through every site you can find, anything you can find, about daggers made to order. Possibly in Italy.”

  Moretti picked up Liz Falla’s papers and held them out to a stunned PC Brouard, who took them without comment.

  “PC Roberts, PC Le Mesurier, PC Clarkson — divide up all the statements between you and go through them with a fine-tooth comb. What are you looking for you’re going to ask me, right? The answer is — I don’t know. There are dozens of people without alibis because both murders took place at night. But watch out for inconsistencies, discrepancies, stories that seem too pat, or stories that seem too alike. Okay, Jimmy,” The tension in the room went up, “go over the basic nuts and bolts stuff from the murder scenes — similarities, differences, that sort of thing.”

  Jimmy Le Poidevin raised an eyebrow. “You want me to tell you what you already know, Moretti? We’ve been over this, and you got my report, didn’t you?”

  Moretti smiled. His smile made Liz Falla think of an old children’s fable in some book she’d had as a child. Something about a crocodile smiling. “Humour me, Jimmy. Perhaps it will suddenly transmogrify into new and important revelations.”

  “Well, for a start, there’s little similarity between the two crime scenes, for all that both murder weapons are daggers.”

  “Go on,” said Moretti.

  “First of all, the Albarosa death looks like it was either accidental or opportunistic and — either by luck or good management — it was quick and clean. The En
sor murder, on the other hand, is clearly premeditated — I mean, it must be, mustn’t it, or else how did they both get down there in the first place? And whoever did it must have underestimated the victim, because he fought for his life the length of that corridor to where we found him. We’re still waiting for the final results, but the P.E.H. medics are of the opinion it was death by vagal inhibition.”

  Here we go, thought Moretti.

  “In layman’s terms, he died of fright — like suffocation, really.” Jimmy Le Poidevin turned and faced the assembled officers, as if he were in a lecture hall. “The vagus nerve sends a signal to the brain that makes the heart stop beating. Mind you, he’d have bled to death in the end, anyway — he had one hell of a slash in the belly. Time of death is estimated at between midnight and two a.m.”

  “I thought they were getting a second opinion on that,” observed Moretti quietly. Jimmy Le Poidevin turned away from his audience.

  “P.E.H. think they can take care of it themselves,” he said, his face reddening.

  “Then I’ll talk to them myself. What I want from you are the forensic details from the two crime scenes —”

  “Nuts and bolts, I know. I’m sure most of the officers here have no need of a frigging forensic kindergarten class” — a dramatic pause — “even if you do, Moretti.”

  The crocodile smile again. “Don’t tell us, Jimmy. Show us. You say Ensor fought his way along the length of the passage. How do you know that? Coded messages written in the dirt? Second sight? A voice from beyond the grave? Give us a frigging forensic kindergarten class, Jimmy. That’s what you’re here for.”

  “Jesus Christ!” The red in Le Poidevin’s face had deepened to an ugly purple. “Don’t tell me what I’m here for, you arrogant bastard!”

  The door opened, and Chief Officer Hanley joined them. He surveyed Moretti, Jimmy Le Poidevin, and the assembled staff with a melancholy sweep of the eyes.

  “Good morning.”

  There was a muttered ripple of “good morning, sir”s around the room, and silence fell as everyone waited for him to speak.

  “I trust I didn’t hear what I just heard,” he said, fixing his chief forensic officer and Moretti with the gloomy stare of one who knew only too well what he had just heard. “We have enough problems to be going on with without pitched battles between senior officers. But I’ll deal with this another time, not in public in the incident room. DI Moretti — you have, I trust, explained just how — stalled, this investigation is. We need results, and we need them fast, or we will have Scotland Yard here before you can say —” Here, Hanley himself stalled, and Moretti bit his tongue on filling in “— eagle-eyed, sir?”

  “— Bob’s your uncle,” Hanley continued. “So, on the principle that six or seven heads are better than one —” this with a reproachful glance at Moretti, “— I have given DI Moretti some extra help. I realize it may be too much to ask, but it would be most welcome if some sort of advance could be made before my scheduled holidays. Now, are there any questions?”

  “Sir,” PC Clarkson had his hand up first, “this second dagger — do you think this has anything to do with the Occupation?”

  “It certainly opens up that particular can of worms,” Moretti replied.

  “Then, shouldn’t we ask questions locally — I mean, wouldn’t it help?”

  “We may have to do that eventually. But not right now.”

  “Surely, Moretti, we must now accept the fact that there may well be a Guernsey connection?” asked the chief officer, his irritation barely concealed, to Jimmy Le Poidevin’s undisguised relish. “I’m reluctant to do so, but I feel we should be exploring local possibilities in the light of this last weapon. Old enmities, and all that.”

  “Possibly, sir, but I’d rather hold on to that information a bit longer.” Moretti stood up, and Liz Falla followed suit. “I have arranged to speak to the film director this morning — if you’ll excuse me, sir.”

  Outside in the corridor, Liz Falla exploded — a sotto voce explosion. “What a prat — just because the murderer was selfish enough to endanger Mrs. Hanley’s holiday in Torremolinos or whatever — sorry, Guv, but what a wally!”

  “That’s enough, Falla. He’s not the only wally in this station, but he’s right about one thing,” said Moretti. “What he said about old enmities — he’s got that right.”

  “So you think this might have a Guernsey connection then?”

  “No, I don’t. But I want to keep quiet about the dagger that killed Ensor, because you never know. I’ve got to cover all bases, but I still believe it’s a red herring. That’s why Hanley and PC Clarkson and the others in there —” Moretti jabbed his thumb in the direction of the incident room door, “are on a wild Guernsey goose chase, looking busy and keeping the chief officer happy.”

  The dying man lay on the dirt floor, life ebbing slowly from him. He was young, in his mid-twenties, slightly built, his nimbus of blond hair in stark contrast to the cloud of dark hair around the agonized face of the girl who cradled him in her arms. Suddenly, with what was left of his strength, he raised his face to hers and kissed her, then fell back.

  “No!” The girl’s frantic cry echoed in the silence.

  The camera crept in noiselessly to catch the agony in Clifford Wesley’s eyes, the blood caked on his clothing, as the boom of the mike was lowered to pick up his final words.

  “Cosa fatta, capo ha.”

  A thing once done has an end.

  “Cut!”

  Mario Bianchi turned and looked at Monty Lord, who stood beside him. There were tears in his eyes, slowly spilling over onto his cheeks.

  “Magnifico.”

  A brief spattering of applause from the assembled crew dissipated the tension, bringing everyone back into the present.

  Clifford Wesley got up from the ground and gave Vittoria Salviati a hug.

  “Terrific, Vicky. One take and we gave it to ’em.”

  “What Mario wanted, si.”

  Mario Bianchi’s well-known preference for the immediate reaction, his dislike of repeated takes for scenes of emotional intensity, put tremendous pressure on his actors, and Wesley, with his stage experience, was at an advantage over Salviati. There was no doubt, he mused, as he allowed the dresser to peel his blood-soaked shirt off him, that Gunter was right. The murder of Toni had opened some emotional floodgate in the beautiful body and limited mind of Vittoria.

  Well, it’s an ill wind, he thought. She may have lost a lover, but found her centre. Who knows?

  And who cares? he added to himself. With that scene in the can, I can get out of here. Take the money and run, before the arrival of this extra character dreamed up by Mario. Rumour had it that they were casting an Italian soap star, and Clifford Wesley smiled to himself as he imagined what Gilbert Ensor’s reaction would have been. He’d have gone ballistic, no question. Shame, really, that particular scene would not be played out. He used to enjoy Gil’s histrionics. They reminded him of his father inveighing drunkenly against the fates in his penniless Liverpool childhood, with a luxuriance of language and epithet intensified by hardship and deprivation.

  Pulling on the dressing gown offered by the wardrobe assistant, Clifford Wesley retrieved his glasses and started to make his way across the tangle of cords and leads that brought life to the cameras and lights. Monty and Mario were deep in some sort of confabulation together and, from what he could hear, the discussion was not friendly.

  Second time in two days, he thought. I’m well out of this.

  Outside his trailer, he saw the lean figure of the detective inspector, waiting for him.

  “Mr. Wesley?”

  “That’s me. You want to talk to me? Come on in.”

  He ushered Moretti over the threshold into an extremely untidy space, filled with discarded garments, glasses, newspapers, and books.

  “Sorry about the mess, but I can’t stand having strangers mucking about with my belongings. I prefer to wallow in my own filth.” Wesley pu
shed a pile of magazines off a chair and motioned to Moretti to sit down.

  “Now, how can I help you? I’ve nothing to add to my original statement. The body count continues to go up, eh?”

  “Indeed. I understand this is your last day.”

  “Too bloody right it is. Thank God.”

  “Does your feeling have anything to do with the changes? Do they affect your own role, or its prominence in the film?”

  “Prominence!” Clifford Wesley laughed with what sounded to Moretti like genuine amusement. “Look — Detective Inspector, isn’t it? — let me explain something to you. I’m twenty-eight years old and I stumbled into this business by accident while I was at university on scholarship, living hand to mouth. I spent four years in repertory theatre, making peanuts, absolutely no money, and then some agent sees me in a play in the middle of nowhere and next thing I know I’m in the West End, and the next thing I know I’m in Rastrellamento making more money than my dad made in his whole working life. It’s a hell of a role, and apart from cutting it out altogether, there’s little they can do to alter that. By the time I’ve finished with them there won’t be a dry eye or a dry seat in the house. Fuck the schoolteacher. Fuck prominence. I’ll take the money and run, thank you.”

  “Schoolteacher?”

  “That’s the newest addition.”

  “I see. I’d like to find out more from your point of view about some of the circumstances surrounding the making of Rastrellamento.”

  “Happy to help if I can. Gil was a bastard to his wife, but he was a hell of a writer.”

  “In my opinion also. Why then do you think they were making all these changes?”

  “This is my first film, Detective Inspector, but I know this kind of thing happens all the time, or so Gunter tells me. However, you have to hope in this case that Mario’s decisions are being dictated by his cinematic skills and not by little packets of white powder. You know about that, I imagine. Some of the changes don’t make sense.”