Overture in Venice

by Hester Rowan

  ‘But why didn’t the cousin try to get what Pietro had hidden?’

  Guy looked slightly shocked. ‘Not with Pietro’s body there. No one from the locality would dream of it. But Alberto must have babbled about it in Venice and that’s how Zecchini got to hear of it.’

  I sipped some more wine, hardly noting its taste. ‘I don’t imagine that Zecchini would have any such scruples?’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t. My guess is that he’d only just got wind of it, though, and it was when Alberto realized that Zecchini was hunting him to find out the exact location that he panicked and tried to get in touch with me. He’d know that Zecchini wouldn’t hesitate to kill Giorgio – and Maddalena and Lisetta as well, if necessary, in order to get at the cave.’

  ‘But I suppose that when he got here and found that the family was being moved out anyway, he decided to bide his time … I’m still not sure where Lang fits in, though.’

  Guy stood up abruptly, staring after Giorgio’s friends who had managed to weave their way half the distance between the farmhouse and the gap that led to the pumping station. They had stopped now and some kind of altercation seemed to be going on. He shook his head in exasperation.

  ‘If only they’d get a move on … As far as Lang’s concerned, I imagine that he knows nothing about Alberto. From what you learned, I think he must have been operating the antiquity-smuggling racket between Tuscany and Switzerland, and then exporting the goods quite legally to Brazil. He probably knew that Pietro had skipped with something valuable, tracked down his home address, heard in Trevalle about the accident and guessed that Pietro had been hiding the treasures when he was killed in the cave. Posing as a geologist would have been an ideal way to get access to the cave, if Giorgio had been prepared to let him anywhere near.’

  ‘Do you think that Giorgio knows that Pietro hid something in the cave?’ I asked.

  The dusk was gathering, but there was enough light to see the frown on his face. ‘Yes,’ he said shortly. He looked round at the enclosing mountains, their tops still lit with the late sun. ‘This is why I don’t want to leave until he’s in that lorry and safely on his way down to the town,’ he explained. ‘I think he knows what’s in the cave, and I think he knows that people are after it. He wants to prevent the tomb from being violated and that’s why he’s been so belligerent, firing at anyone who approached. It’s not so much that he minds leaving the place, because once the reservoir fills he knows that Pietro’s grave will be left untouched. But I’m sure he’s not prepared to leave here while there’s any likelihood of anyone breaking into the cave to get at the treasure. If he realizes how we’re all trying to trick him to get him away, he may try to come back – and I don’t want him to be hurt in any way. But on the other hand, knowing what we know and who’s likely to be lurking in the valley, I’d be a lot happier if I could get you out of here.’

  I very much wanted to go, but Guy’s presence gave me an illusion of courage.

  ‘Frankly,’ I said with bravado, ‘I’d feel a lot happier if only I weren’t so hungry!’

  His frown lifted. ‘So would I. I’m sorry I dragged you away from that omelette, it was one of my better efforts. I tell you what, though, they had some food here when we arrived – I wonder if there’s anything left?’

  He went back to the bench outside the farmhouse and returned carrying a plate, but stopped a few yards short of where I sat.

  ‘Er – how do you feel about garlic?’

  ‘Unfriendly,’ I said.

  ‘I was afraid so. It’s sheer English prejudice, of course – garlic’s a delicious flavouring when it’s properly cooked. It’s only when it’s raw that it’s anti-social.’

  ‘And what you’ve got there is cooked? I can smell it from here!’

  ‘Oh well …’ He looked regretfully at the hunk of bread and sausage and then considerately ditched it out of range of my nose.

  ‘There was no need to throw it away,’ I said mildly. ‘You should have eaten it yourself, if you were that hungry.’

  ‘What – and put you off me for life?’

  The words hung in the air between us, light, indefinite, tantalizing, meaning either so much or nothing at all. I couldn’t look at him but I was overwhelmingly conscious of his presence beside me, the length of his body, the turn of his head, the shape of his hands. I felt my cheeks burning and was grateful for the concealing dusk.

  ‘More wine?’ he asked.

  ‘No, thanks.’ I got to my feet to move away from him and then on a sudden impulse emptied my mug on the grass and filled it with water from the spring. Long-stemmed moon daisies were growing thickly near the mound. I bent to gather a handful, put them in the mug and carried them to the rock wall where the shrine had been made.

  Maddalena had obviously tended it before she left. A candle was flickering bravely in the dusk and the plastic beakers were filled with fresh flowers. I set my flowers on a ledge beside them, thinking not of Pietro who had been killed by his own greed while he tried to hide stolen antiquities, but of poor frightened, hunted Alberto who had been murdered in the act of trying to protect Giorgio and Maddalena and Lisetta. I could recollect his face clearly, the anxiety and the fear on it, and I was glad for Alberto’s sake as well as their own that Giorgio and his family were on the way to safety.

  I didn’t hear him come up but I was suddenly conscious that Guy was standing beside me.

  ‘Alberto?’ he asked. I nodded. Silently he bent to gather a few more daisies and added them to mine. Then he put his arm lightly round my shoulders and we turned and walked away.

  We said nothing. The moment was too fragile, too tenuous. Words would have shattered it. We paced on slowly under the shadowy grey olive trees in the gathering darkness, watching the last of the amber light fade from the tops of the Alpine peaks, seeing the stars brighten, hardly touching each other, but totally aware, hardly daring to breathe but conscious of each other’s breathing.

  ‘Giorgio! Ola, Giorgio, Giorgio!’

  From the end of the valley near the gap came drunken shouts. Guy’s arm tightened as we peered through the thickening shadows towards the point where we had last seen the men. We could barely make out any of the figures, but they were running and stumbling in a confusion of shouts and oaths and above their voices rose a shrill cry that I thought must come from Maddalena.

  ‘The old fox, he’s made a bolt for it!’ Guy exclaimed. ‘I might have known he’d be too sly for them – he just waited until they were too drunk to realize what he was up to and then he ducked back. What with the wine and the darkness, they’ll never catch him now. I’ll have to try to head him off. Can you see him?’

  Our silent walk had carried us into the middle of the valley, well away from the farmhouse. The moon had ridden up over the nearest mountain peak, illuminating the valley, and suddenly I picked out the old man, unsteady but determined, making straight for his home.

  ‘There!’ I cried, pointing. But as I spoke there came a distinct sharp crack. Giorgio stopped abruptly, threw up his arms, sagged and fell.

  ‘The bastards,’ Guy exploded. ‘It’ll be either Zecchini or Lang – no, you stay here, Clare, for God’s sake.’ He turned to push me back into the shadow of a tree, but at that moment I saw another figure running towards Giorgio’s fallen body.

  ‘It’s Maddalena,’ I cried. ‘They’ll shoot her as well!’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Guy caught my hand. ‘Listen,’ he said quickly, ‘we’ve got to get them out of here and you’ll have to help me. You can drive, can’t you?’

  I swallowed hard. I could guess what was going to come next, and it was crazy. Certainly I could drive: I drove my own orange Mini regularly in and out of Durham, sometimes my father allowed me to drive his Rover up to Edinburgh. On one hairy occasion I’d even driven my brother’s newly-repaired Renault all the way down to his flat in Wimbledon. But nothing was going to induce me to drive a strange foreign vehicle at night in an Alpine valley where a murdere
r was loose with a gun.

  Guy’s grip was hard, his look urgent. ‘Yes,’ I heard myself croaking.

  ‘Good, here’s the ignition key for the Haflinger – it goes in the left hand side of the steering column. I’ll go to help Maddalena while you fetch the truck over. You won’t be seen in the shelter of the olives, you should be quite safe. Only take care!’

  ‘You too,’ I wanted to say, but my mouth was too dry. I was appalled at the risk Guy was taking, heading in a stooping run towards the place where Maddalena was kneeling over her father’s body, and I knew that he would depend on my help. I urged my feet into motion and started running back through the olive trees the way we had come, praying that neither Zecchini nor Lang would be at the farmhouse waiting for me.

  I reached the last of the olive trees. There was one clear patch of ground, moonlit, between me and the dark shadow of the farmhouse. Ahead, all was quiet. From the end of the valley came a confused medley of drunken shouts as the men tried to sort themselves out and find Giorgio. I peered towards the place where the old man had fallen. I could see nothing, but I heard what I thought was a wail from Maddalena and that was enough to give me the courage I needed to bolt the last few yards across to the shadow of the farmhouse and the security of the Haflinger.

  But the security was only an illusion. I was safe only just so long as I kept still and quiet. There was no point in my being there unless I moved the truck and I knew that it was noisy and slow. Once I had it out in the open, I should be a clear target.

  I swung myself into the darkness of the driver’s seat and sat there panting, my heart thumping as I fiddled with the key. The dashboard was entirely unfamiliar. The Haflinger was a brute of a vehicle, a specialized mountain-driving truck with heaven knew what complications in the gearbox. I had no idea where to find reverse, and that was what I should need immediately; directly ahead of me was the rock wall, and I knew that there were tumbled boulders at its base which would block any passage.

  I breathed deeply and tried to steady my shaking hand. Left hand side of the steering column, Guy had said; I found the ignition, slipped in the key and switched on. That was the easy part.

  I groped for the gear lever. It was in neutral – but it moved from front to back instead of from side to side. I remembered watching Guy’s brown hand changing gear, moving up through at least seven gates to get from bottom to top, but I couldn‘t remember seeing him reverse. And if I muffed it, if I started the engine and then stalled, the racket would surely bring the gunman. And if I couldn’t help them, Guy and Maddalena would be left stranded, at the mercy of Lang or Zecchini or both.

  My hands were slippery. I wiped them on the front of my once-pink tunic and tried to think calmly. There was no way of telling blind how the gear sequence went, but I remembered that the gates were numbered on the cover of the gear lever. If only I could see, I ought to be able to find reverse.

  I had no matches, no lighter. There was nowhere in the utilitarian vehicle where a torch might be kept, no interior light that would come on when the door was opened. But with a towering rock wall ahead, there was a chance that if I switched on the headlights the reflection from the rock would enable me to see what I was doing.

  I felt over the dashboard, found a switch, pressed it. The wipers started to sweep. I found another, flicked it down and then instinctively threw up my hands to shade my eyes as the rock wall leaped into light.

  I could see it all through my parted fingers: the towering fissured wall, the boulders at its foot, the partly-blocked entrance to the cave where Pietro was buried, the flowers, the guttering candle. I could also see, standing transfixed in the sudden light, the figures of two men. Belugi was in the act of clambering up and over the boulders to reach the gap at the top of the mouth of the cave. Zecchini was standing at the foot urging him on.

  I was stupefied, unable to do anything except gape at the two men. They were both dazzled by the light, lifting their hands to ward it off. And then almost immediately came an echoing crack. Belugi slipped, scrabbled with his hands and feet and then fell, with a bouncing roll from boulder to boulder until he reached the ground.

  Zecchini had already crouched, something in his hand. He raised it and pointed it straight at me. There was an explosion, the vehicle rocked and part of the mountain wall was abruptly darkened as he shot out one of the Haflinger’s lights. He raised his hand again and took aim.

  And then he spun round. For a second the fat man looked like one of those little manikin toys that are too heavily-based ever to be knocked over, and then he crumpled. I sat trembling, sick with horror, powerless either to think or to act. I was dimly conscious of hearing the sound of a powerful motorcycle and the wailing of a police siren, of seeing a brilliant headlight sweeping round the valley, of hearing cries and the thud of feet. And then the door of the Haflinger was wrenched open and Guy was beside me.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he demanded. ‘Clare –?’

  I turned to him slowly. I could feel that the blood had drained from my face and I felt sick and very cold.

  ‘I –’ My mouth was so dry that I had to try to moisten my lips before I could whisper the words. ‘I killed them –’

  Guy slid into the seat beside me and took one of my hands, but I was too numb to feel his touch. ‘No, you didn’t,’ he soothed me. ‘Even if they’re dead – and they may not be, Giorgio isn’t, thank goodness, he was hit in the leg but he’ll survive – even if they’re dead, it wasn’t you who shot them. It was Lang. He must have been hiding in the ruined buildings and then sneaked nearer as darkness fell, trying to get to the cave. But after Giorgio came running back, Alberto’s cousin had the presence of mind to go and tell the policeman at the pumping station. He’s rounded Lang up and radioed for an ambulance. Everything’s all right, Clare. It’s all sorted out now, do you hear?’

  I heard, but I was in no condition to take it in. Suddenly I was crying, the tears that come as a reaction to shock rolling silently down my cheeks. I shook my head uncomprehendingly.

  ‘But I lit them up. It was my doing,’ I choked. ‘If it wasn’t for me …’

  ‘If it wasn’t for you, they’d probably still be shooting it out with Lang,’ Guy said briskly. ‘They were all three criminals, all armed. There was bound to be bloodshed. Oh, you’re not crying over them? My dear girl –’

  He moved to put an arm round me but his words had stung me out of my numbed wretchedness and I pushed him away. ‘Don’t call me that!’ I blazed through my tears. ‘Just don’t call me that, Guy Lombardi. I’m not your dear girl! How dare you be so – so insufferably patronizing –’

  He looked at me in surprise. ‘Patronizing? Good grief – Clare, you’ve got it all wrong …! I’m partly Italian, remember, and an Italian tries to restrain himself from making overtures to another man’s girl. Considering you’re waiting for Owen –’

  This time I exploded. ‘I’m not Owen’s girl! Yes, I liked him very much when I met him – but I’d have forgotten all about him by now if only you didn’t keep on dragging his name into every conversation. If you so much as mention him again I’ll …’

  But what I was going to say was never said, because by the time Guy let me draw breath there was no more need for me to say it.

  It was the day before my Italian holiday was due to end. Vincente had returned from Milan and Guy had fetched Jennifer and Richard from their hotel to join us for one of Caterina’s splendid meals. Now, in the cool of the late afternoon, Caterina and her husband were showing my cousin and her fiancé round the garden while Guy and I sat on the terrace; not saying much but enjoying the sun and the Alpine air and the scent of the roses.

  Guy stood up. ‘There’s a car coming. Good, it’ll be our friend.’

  The sound of a sports car drew nearer. He went to the balustrade and as the car stopped on the drive below he said with half-admiring irritation: ‘Well, would you believe it – he’s brought a girl with him!’

  I jumped up to look but he steere
d me out of sight behind a rose bush.

  ‘No, don’t let him see you yet. I told you that he was a fast worker, didn’t I?’

  ‘Is she beautiful?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. There’s nothing wrong with his taste. Hallo, Owen,’ he called. ‘Come on up, I’ve got a surprise for you.’

  I parted the blossoms to peer down through the bush. Owen stood beside his car looking up at the terrace, tall and broad-shouldered, surrtanned and boyishly curly-haired, relaxed and engaging and undeniably cuddly. ‘Oh yes?’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Yes,’ said Guy. ‘Clare’s here.’

  Owen’s mouth sagged open. ‘Clare! But I thought … She said that she’d be down at Lake Garda. I was going to meet her there, or in England. But I never expected she’d be here! Look, Guy, this is hellishly awkward. I met Michele in Asolo, you see, and she’d got separated from the friends she was with and so naturally I gave her a lift and … Hang it, man, you know how it is?’

  Guy turned to me. ‘I’m afraid that’s often the way it is with teddy bears,’ he explained conversationally. ‘Good friends, but they do tend to be emotionally immature.’

  ‘So I see,’ I said. ‘Unkind to tease them, though.’

  ‘If you say so. Well then –’ he looked at me intently, questioning, his eyebrows no longer censorious ‘– what do I tell him?’

  ‘Don’t bother with the details,’ I said. ‘Just the important part.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He seized my hand and drew me to his side and we leaned together over the balustrade regardless of whether we were crushing the roses.

  ‘Come up, both of you,’ he called, his voice exultant. ‘And stop looking so worried, Owen – Clare and I have something to tell you.’

  Copyright

  First published in 1976 by Collins