Assignment Sorrento Siren

by Unknown Author

  She paused and looked at him and said in a small voice, “Will you help Cesare? You said you’d help me. After all this time and the knocks I got, the way men never meant anything but trouble or a way to get ahead, I’ve gone stupid. Maybe I love him. But Jack is like a crazy man, and he’ll kill him. He did things to me, but it wasn’t as if he was angry, or anything; it was cold, cold.” She began to shiver with the memory. “Will you help me?”

  “If I can. You’ll have to tell me the truth, though, about the scrolls,” he said.

  She nodded. Her dark hair clung limply to her cheeks, still wet from the sea. “I went to see them with my husband, Count Bernardo, when they were on exhibit in Rome, three weeks ago. Bernardo wanted to buy them. But that Prince Tuvanaphan wouldn’t sell, of course. Bernardo said he’d give a quarter of a million dollars to add them to his Oriental collection. I never saw him act like that before. He’s usually cool and calculating about buying new items. But he kept talking about the scrolls all the time. Finally I got the idea. He’d buy them from any source, no matter how he got them.”

  “You’re sure of this?”

  “I’m not stupid that way,” she said. “I know when somebody is in the market for something. So I told Cesare about it. Cesare and I have been . . . seeing each other . . . whenever we could, for the last few months. Bernardo doesn’t know.”

  “You mean you think he doesn’t know.”

  Francesca looked up. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing. You and Cesare decided to steal the scrolls, then?”

  “Sure, but we didn’t know how,” she whispered. “Then I met Jack and it all became simple. He’s like me, crazy for money. We were brought up in dirt, he says. Some people don’t mind staying there, but not me. And not him. I told him I had a ready market for the paintings if he could deliver them. I—I had to promise a little more, though.” “Yourself?” Durell asked quietly.

  Her laughter was harsh, a raw noise in her throat. “He thought I was a genuine lady. He wanted me for the same reason I married Count Apollio. A step up, you know? He thought I was a real countess, and when he found out I wasn’t, he just—he just stopped coming after me. I guess it saved my life. But I know what I am—what I’ll always be.”

  Durell said, “So you and Cesare double-crossed Jack in Geneva after he turned the scrolls over to you; you had Bruno mail them and you picked them up at the Hotel Sentissi yesterday morning and gave them to Cesare. He was going to hide them in the monastery, but he changed his minH and —- brought them here.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “And he expects to sell them to Count Bernardo? You really believe that?”

  “Sure, I believe . . She stared. “What do you mean?” “Your husband is a man of honor. Honor means more to him than anything else. Do you really think he’d buy the Dwan Scrolls, knowing they were stolen?”

  “Sure, he said he would.”

  “But would he buy them from Cesare Bellaria, his worst enemy? Don’t you think he knows about you and Cesare?” Her lips were pale. “What are you getting at?”

  “And as for Cesare,” Durell persisted. “You really think Cesare will make a deal with Apollio and take money from him, when there is such hatred between them? It doesn’t add up, Fran. I’m sorry for you.”

  “Sorry? But. . . ."

  Looking down at her, he felt a familiar sense of excitement and sudden illumination as the vaguely disturbing pattern suddenly shifted as in a child’s kaleidoscope and took on a new design in dark and somber colors. He felt a sense of urgency, of imminent disaster. The girl stood up. Her face was white. She started to speak, but her mouth shook and she was silent for another moment.

  “I’ll try to help you,” he said again. “But I doubt if I can.” She looked fearful. “What are you trying to tell me? I can’t have been so wrong. I know men, I know how they think.”

  “Not these men. Not Talbott or Cesare or Apollio.”

  “Oh, you’re a devil,” she whispered. “Why are you putting these ideas in my head?”

  “Where is Cesare now?”

  “He’s gone to Bernardo. I didn’t want to be there when he closed the deal. He said he’d get there by dark.”

  “With the scrolls?”

  “Yes. He brought them to the island on his boat. After last night, at the monastery, he was afraid to leave them on the mainland.”

  “One more question, Fran. Who stabbed Silas Hanson?” He saw her look blank and added, “The man who was with me at the monastery last night.”

  “Oh. Cesare did it. He was taken by surprise. I guess he didn’t realize—everything was happening at once.”

  “You saw Pacek last night, too, didn’t you?”

  She looked blank again. “Who?”

  “Anton Pacek.”

  “I don’t know anybody by that name.”

  He was finished with her now. “All right, Fran. I think you’d better fix yourself up the best you can and go back to your husband.”

  “I can’t go back like this.”

  “I think it will be all right—if you tell him the truth.”

  “The truth? I couldn’t!”

  “He might understand,” Durell said.

  She saw him turn away. “Where are you going? Are you just going to leave me here like this?”

  “There isn’t much time. I’m sorry, Francesca.”

  He walked away, moving faster with every step.

  chapter eighteen

  THE MOON had not yet risen from the sea when Durell crossed the cobbled piazza of the fishing village and turned down the beach path toward the Bellaria place. There were lights in the fishermen’s bar and a low rumble of conversation against the shadowed night. The church squatted against a scarp of rock and from its square tower came the iron clangor of a bell. A man passed him, tugged at his ragged cap and muttered, “Buona sera, signor,” and went into the cafe. Two young girls, shepherded by a stout woman in black, hurried past; he caught a glimpse of their white eyes sliding to observe him, and the quick impatience in the woman’s voice, and then they, too, were gone. He reached the end of the street and passed the beach where the fishing boats were drawn up and took the path uphill to the Bellaria house.

  He wished he had Si with him, to cover some of the things that had to be covered; he could not be in two places at once. He did not know what was happening at Count Apollio’s; perhaps he should have gone there first. But Talbott looked as if he’d been heading this way again, and an apprehension for Deirdre drove him this way, too. He hoped she was still out of the affair, but he wasn’t sure.

  The Bellaria palazzo loomed ahead, the ruined terraces and crumbling marble balustrades making geometrical patterns in the starlight. The huge building was all dark. Durell ran across the lower terrace and circled the building to the back courtyard and then entered the way he had gone in before. No lights shone in the ornately carved windows. He wanted to shout Deirdre’s name, but the silence pressed his voice back into his throat.

  He crossed the court and paused in the shadows, looking up at the tall, dark windows on three sides. Nothing anywhere. The door was open to Rafael’s living quarters, and he walked through to the small kitchen where the kerosene stove was still burning. Rafael had been cooking his supper. A gray enamel coffee pot bubbled there. Durell moved on through the gloom amid all the dusty, ruined splendors of the house.

  Nothing stays the same, he thought. Time and man work their havoc with what was once strong and beautiful, eroding and ravaging. Once the Bellarias and Apollios had been equals, the one the ancient blond Norman invader in coat-of-mail and long-sword, with bowmen and ships to strike at the Saracens across the sea; and the other the short and dark, indigenous lords of the land, accepting an alliance against heresy only to find the ally pre-empting the domain all around.

  The invader had won, to judge by this ruin, Durell thought. He walked through the arched doorway and up a flight of worn stone steps and across a huge reception hall with a firepla
ce large enough to roast an ox.

  “Rafael?” he called softly. “Deirdre?” A smell of disaster filled the high, vaulted rooms.

  He found a bedroom off the main hall, a Spartan chamber filled with starlight and the first gleamings of the rising moon. There was a small iron bed, a huge old wardrobe.

  Rafael Bellaria was sprawled on the floor beside the bed. The old man’s sparse beard was bloody, like an inkstain in the moonlight. An oil lantern had been smashed, and there was the smell of kerosene on the stone floor. Durell crossed the room with care, knelt beside the old man, and felt his pulse. As he did so, Rafael opened his eyes.

  “Signor?”

  “What happened here?” Durell asked.

  “The man came back. He took your signorina.”

  “When?”

  “I do not know. I have been unconscious. My head—I cannot remember. He came suddenly, while I was talking to your signorina about America. She is a lovely girl.” Rafael’s voice was resigned. “One pays for violence with other violence. My head aches, young man. Help me to my feet. A little wine . . .”

  “You aren’t hurt otherwise?”

  “For me, a crack on the head in other years would have broken the stick that did it. Now I am not so sure.”

  Durell was relieved that the old man was all right. But when he thought of what might be happening to Deirdre, a cold fury filled him. “You didn’t see the man clearly, though?” “Which one?” Rafael sighed.

  “There were two of them?”

  “Yes, two, one after the other. The first beat me and asked for my foolish young brother, Cesare. He saw your signorina and asked her to come with him. Naturally, she refused. But he was like a wild man, even when he spoke softly. One feared his silences more than his shouting.”

  That would be Talbott, then, who came here first.

  “And the second man?” Durell asked.

  “The first, the blond devil, beat me and struck me,” Rafael said. He tried to smooth his bloody beard. There was more blood on his vest and striped shirt. He walked unsteadily across the room and sat down on the bed. “I was still conscious. He slapped the signorina and took her with him. And only minutes later, the ugly man like a barrel came along. Was he a Russian?”

  “A Czech,” Durell said. “His name is Anton Pacek.”

  “Yes, now I remember. He told me, when he asked for you, signor. I did not like anything about him. That one was worse, in his way, than the first devil.”

  “I’m sorry I brought you this trouble, Rafael.”

  “You did not bring it. My brothers did all this, trying to carry on a vendetta that is best forgotten. No one can even remember why it started, so why carry it on? It is like the struggle of beasts without reason. One wants only a little peace, the sunshine and bread, wine and fish, and the smell of the sea. What man needs more? But Bruno and Cesare would not let it rest. Bruno fed on hate; Cesare fed on jealousy and lust.”

  “The blond man—did he say what he wanted?”

  “He wanted Cesare’s life. What else?” Rafael sighed. “Cesare was not here, so he went to Apollio’s, and took your signorina with him.”

  “For insurance,” Durell said grimly. “I must leave you, old man. Will you be all right?”

  “I shall live,” Rafael said, and smiled through his bloodstained beard.

  chapter nineteen

  COUNT BERNARDO APOLLIO watched the anguish on Lombardo’s face and regretted the confusion he caused in the old servant’s mind. Lombardo had been his father’s valet, and his grandfather’s stableboy; he stood now in the study doorway and wrung his shaking hands. Apollio lit a small, thin cigar and was pleased to see that his own hands were quite steady.

  The study was his favorite room in the big palazzo atop Monte Filibano. Its arched windows offered a moonlit view of the fishing village, far below, and the whole of the southern shore except the western tip of the island. This was blocked off by a hedgerow of pruned cypresses planted ten years ago to shut out the intrusion of the new villas. He had built long walls there and used barbed wire and dogs to prevent the movie people from trespassing an inch beyond their property.

  He often took pleasure in the concept that this room reflected his entire life, with its books and jade vases and the Michelangelo wax study of Adam’s hand. It was his greatest treasure. The palazzo was crammed with Roman and Greek statuary, with Chinese stone sculpture and long galleries of Renaissance paintings, but it was all summed up in the few small treasures contained in this room—a small tower chamber, octagonal in shape, with its heavily carved desk of inlaid olive wood, the worn leather chair, the case of antique weapons gleaming behind glass doors.

  He looked gently at his aged, trembling servant in the doorway. Lombardo knew there was savagery abroad tonight, and in his old age, Lombardo was fearful and shaken. Apollio smiled at his own calm. He had waited too long to give way to emotion now. He spoke quietly.

  “Has the countess returned yet?”

  “No, sir,” Lombardo said quickly. His voice shook. “What shall I tell the young Bellaria?”

  “Show him in.”

  “But, Bernardo, it is impossible!” The old man presumed on his age and his memory that reached back to Apollio’s boyhood, and at times he spoke to the Count as if he were a child again. “It is too dangerous. Not for you, of course, but you do not want to involve yourself with such a man!”

  “It will be all right. Has he a package with him, Lombardo? Yes? Then let him come up.”

  “And the countess?”

  “We will find her later. Go, Lombardo.”

  The old man’s head trembled and bobbed in a nod when he left. Apollio got up from the desk and looked down from his study window to the gate. The moonlight was clear, painting silver radiance on the walls and ancient entranceway. A strange tableau was evident in the courtyard down there. The tall, dark figure of Cesare Bellaria, whose feet had never walked here before, was surrounded by Louis and Germano and the big, growling dogs held back on chains. Apollio watched Lombardo’s shaky old form emerge and talk to the other men; he could almost hear their surprised protests. They withdrew the dogs reluctantly. He could not see Cesare’s face, but he was carrying the Dwan Scrolls.

  A taste of acid filled Apollio’s throat, and he was chagrined at this evidence of nerves, after all. Hatred was an evil flower, fed with injury and pain, nurtured with silent tears. It would not do to lose control at this last moment. He turned back to the softly lighted study and sat down behind the desk and put his hands flat on the polished top and waited.

  In less than a minute, Lombardo ushered Cesare in. The old man said nothing, but stood in the doorway, hesitant and appalled. Apollio waved a hand.

  “You may go, Lombardo.”

  “You will not need me?”

  “No. You may go to bed, Lombardo.”

  “I could not sleep, sir.”

  “Try.” Apollio smiled. “Sit down, Cesare.”

  Cesare stood tall and slim and muscular in dark slacks and a thin black sweater and dark sneakers. His narrow head leaned forward a little on his wide shoulders, and his long nose looked white. His breathing was quick. So much the better, Apollio thought, considering the younger man. He himself, at forty, felt self-sufficient at this moment when old enemies met. He had never seen Cesare at this close distance, although he knew every line of that inimical face. The blood spilled between their families in past generations wavered for a moment like a dark red curtain between them.

  “Sit down,” he said again. “I see you have brought the paintings.”

  Cesare’s voice was too loud. “Yes, I brought them. Have you the money?”

  “It is here. In cash. American dollars, as arranged.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “Let me see the scrolls first.”

  “I warned you there must be no tricks,” Cesare said harshly. He put the bulky package on the desk, with an insolent gesture. “Here they are, all four of them.”

  “Unwrap
them, please,” Apollio said.

  “You do not trust me? These are the Dwan Scrolls—”

  “No, I do not trust you. You are young, Cesare, and impetuous, and you make my house stink with the smell of your hatred. But for now we will do business together.”

  “May my father forgive me,” Cesare whispered. “Let us be quick. It is too much to endure.”

  “It is not easy for me, either.”

  The younger man, Apollio thought, really did not know how difficult it was. He felt impatient, smelled the smell of death, and was touched by alarm lest he give himself away. The young think they are clever, but they do not know how to plan in patient detail. And when they are surprised by manipulated events, they feel cheated and betrayed. Cesare would be surprised tonight. He had such clever, confident eyes!

  Apollio made a languid gesture. “Please open the package. . . . By the way, do you know about Bruno, in Geneva?”

  Cesare stood very still. “Perhaps.”

  “Bruno is dead. Someone killed him and dropped his body in the lake. Did you not know about it, boy?”

  Cesare’s breath hissed. He had unwrapped part of the parcel, but now he stood frozen. “It is a lie. I heard—but never mind. No Apollio can be trusted. Bruno told me all about you, how you worked with the Fascists, how you were Mussolini’s friend, how you squeezed the people dry and how, in the riots after the Americans took Rome, the fishermen came up here to the palazzo . . .”

  “With Bruno leading them,” Apollio said quietly.

  “Yes, Bruno, my brother. And Bruno settled things with you.”

  “Nothing is ever settled in this life. However, let me see the paintings, Cesare.”

  Cesare did not look quite as confident as before. He carelessly threw the paper wrappings from the mail parcel to the