A Fine and Private Place (12 page)

“As I've had to keep telling you, Nino, you're very hard to buy gifts for,” Virginia said with a smile. “So these are for the man who has everything. Happy birthday, dear, and anniversary.” She managed the endearment without corrupting the smile.

Importuna was examining the flagons with quizzical interest. Suddenly his face cleared.

“
Grazie, sposa
,” he murmured. “I see you remembered. I'm touched.
Grazie di nuovo
.”

“But what is it?” Peter asked. “It looks like water.”

He knew very well what it was; she had discussed her choice with him.

“It is water,” Virginia said. “During our honeymoon in Rome five years ago, Nino took me to the Piazza di Spagna and showed me the Barcaccia fountain, designed by Pietro Bernini in 16-something—that's Bernini the elder, not the famous one. The water of the Barcaccia fountain, Nino told me, is supposed to have unusual qualities and a superior taste. And in fact, while we were standing there, a steady stream of people came from the nearby artists' quarter—Via Margutta and Via del Babuino—don't you love that name? Street of the Baboon?—carrying jugs and buckets and filling them from the fountain the way people had been doing, Nino said, for 350 years.”

“It is superior, in spite of the Roman scoffers,” Importuna said. “Cesar will kiss me. I'll let him have some to cook with. Artichokes and zucchini cooked in this water have special
brio
, as they say. It's true. What an imaginative present, Virginia. So full of sentiment. I thank you again. Especially for humoring what I know you consider my imbecile superstition—not only bottles of water from the Barcaccia, but 9 of them! It is too much.

“And now, my dear,” he said, “I have my anniversary present to you.”

And plumbed his breast pocket for something.

So finally … finally. The climax of her day. The climax of her five years of days. And their hideous nights. Under cover of the Assisi-work tablecloth Virginia pressed her nails into her palms. Her face remained pleasantly expectant.

“I don't suppose, Virginia,” her husband said as he brought out of his dinner jacket a blue-backed paper, “you've forgotten the rather special meaning of this anniversary.”

“No, Nino, I haven't,” she said steadily enough, although her heart was bonging against her chest.

“Five years ago you signed this paper. Under its terms you gave up any and all claims on me and my estate, even a dower right, for the full five-year period. Well, the period has passed, and you're still my wife and living with me.” Importuna's glance took her in at the opposite end of the table with unconcealed pride of ownership—the exquisite northern features, the fine coloring, the gossamer quality, the depth of the womanliness half bared by her décolletage—and with a tremor, suppressed at once, she saw the dreaded fire kindle in his eyes. “A deal is a deal, Virginia. The test is passed, the trial's over, the agreement is null and void, as the lawyers say. So tear it up, my dear, burn it, keep it—it doesn't matter now. It's meaningless. Peter, will you hand this to Mrs. Importuna for her disposal?”

And he gave the blue-backed paper to Ennis, who passed it along in silence to Virginia.

“You'll understand, Nino, if I look this over?”

He waved his four-fingered hand and displayed his teeth in appreciation. “It would be very foolish,
cara
, not to. And you are not, thank the Blessed Mother, a fool. Why should you trust a man who forced a deal like this on you? Verify it, by all means.”

The irony, if that was what it was, did not deter her. “Excuse me, Peter. You don't mind, do you?”

“Of course not, Mrs. Importuna.”

She deliberately examined the agreement, down to the date, the signatures, and the notary's imprint. Then she nodded, refolded the paper, and tucked it into her bosom.

“I've decided to hang on to it, Nino. As a memento. Now how about the second part of our bargain?”

Importuna chuckled. “Tell her, Peter.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The will I had you witness the other day. The new one I asked you to read.”

“Oh! Mr. Importuna had a new will drawn the other day, Mrs. Importuna, by one of his personal attorneys. I was called in to witness the signature, along with two others, and Mr. Importuna asked me afterward to read it. Do you want me to tell Mrs. Importuna the substance of it, Mr. Importuna?”

“Please.”

“It's a basically simple document, although for estate tax purposes and so on a rather complicated trust structure has been set up by the lawyer. In effect, though, it leaves Mr. Importuna's entire estate to you.” Peter uttered a mendacious what-a-good-little-confidential-secretary-am-I cough. “Congratulations, Mrs. Importuna.”

“Thank you.” Virginia rose and went round to her husband and to his evident astonishment and pleasure kissed him on the forehead. “And thank you again, Nino.”

“I've made you happy,” Importuna murmured. “You don't know how I wish—I wish—”

He stopped with a gasp, and Virginia said sharply, “What's the matter?”

His face had gone yellow, a muddy yellow. He was doubled over in what seemed to be an attack of some sort.

Ennis jumped up. “What's wrong, Mr. Importuna?”

He waved them off. “Nothing, nothing. Indigestion—cramps. And I'm dizzy—I've had too much to drink tonight—not used to it …” His face had broken out in perspiration. But he tried a joke. “How often does a man celebrate a fifth wedding anniversary with a wife like mine?”

“Stop talking,” Virginia said, holding a glass of water to his lips. “Here, take a swallow. Peter, you'd better ring up Dr. Mazzarini—”

“No, no, he'll complicate my life with a thousand unnecessary tests. I'll take some aspirin and a dose of milk of magnesia and go to bed, and I'll be all right in the morning.… The pain's already letting up.” Importuna got to his feet with the aid of the back of his chair. “My dear, will you forgive me? Spoiling your anniversary this way …”

“Here, let me help you to your room,” Ennis said, taking his arm.

“I'll manage by myself, Peter, thanks. You keep Mrs. Importuna company—César will be crushed if his dessert is ignored.
Cara
, I'll see you at breakfast.” He waved again and quickly, if unsteadily, left.

They remained where they were, almost touching. But when Peter reached for her and opened his mouth to say something, Virginia stepped back, shook her head, and put a finger to her lips.

“Well, Peter,” she said in a clear voice, “shall we sit down and finish dinner? Please ring for Crump. Or isn't that he now?”

Only later, when they were safely alone, beyond the possibility of eavesdropping, did they communicate.

“Did you get the feeling that he
knows
?” Peter muttered. “Though if he does, why isn't he acting the outraged husband bit? What do you think, Virgin?”

“You have a positive gift for inventing nicknames,” Virginia murmured from the depths of his arms.

“No, seriously.”

“I don't know what Nino knows or what he doesn't. He's the original sphinx.”

“Why did he have me read his new will the other day? Why did he ask me to dinner tonight?”

“Worrywart.” Virginia laughed. “That will
is
all right, isn't it, Peter? No gimmicks or weenies?”

“No conditions at all. At his death you'll come into ownership and control of half a billion dollars. Some people have all the luck.”

“Don't we?” Virginia drew a long, long breath. “Woo-eee! But Peter.”

“Yes, baby.”

“We'll have to be extra careful from now on.”

“Why extra?”

“Wills can be changed.”

“Oh,” said Peter Ennis. “Well, don't worry about it, my little chicken. I think we're over the hump.”

TERM

It is born.

The next morning, quite late, as Crump held her chair in the breakfast room, Virginia Whyte Importuna asked, “Where is Mr. Importuna?”

“He hasn't appeared this morning as yet, madam, from his bedroom.”

“Nino still asleep? At this hour? That's not like him.”

“I presume the excitement and so on of yesterday, madam.”

“It's true he didn't feel well at dinner last night and went straight to bed,” Virginia said. She frowned. “Hasn't Vincenzo said anything?”

“Mr. Importuna's man has strict orders never to disturb the master, madam, until he's rung for.”

“I know that! But orders are made to be broken, Crump. That's what distinguishes people from robots!”

“Yes, madam. Do you wish me to look in on Mr. Importuna?”

“I'll do it myself.”

She was dressed in a billowing morning gown, and as she swept through the vast museum of her home she thought, If I had a candle in my hand I'll bet I'd be mistaken for Lady Macbeth.

Importuna's bedroom door was closed.

She tried the knob and it turned. She raised her hand, hesitated, then knocked lightly.

“Nino?”

They had had separate bedrooms since very early in their marriage, when Virginia first faced one of the bitterer truths of her bargain. You blackmailed me into marrying you, she had told him, and you're keeping me married to you by the stick and the carrot, and as your wife I have to endure your bestialities, but there is nothing in our contract that says I must occupy your bedroom after you've been slaked. I demand sleeping quarters of my own.

He had supplied them instantly. So long as you understand your duties,
sposa
, he had said with a mock bow of his squat—to her, grotesque—figure.

“Nino?” Virginia knocked again.

And yet, she thought, no physical violence, ever. Merely humiliations. Merely! Often she would have preferred the violence. To the abasement, the cruel degradation of her womanhood. As if she were in her own person responsible for his deficiency as a man and must be made to pay and suffer for it.

“Nino!”

From beyond the door still nothing.

So Virginia flung it aside and opened her mouth and was surprised that her shriek came out in a puff of silence. But she persisted, and eventually the shrieking had a sound to it. Then Crump came running as if for his stately, superior life, and Editta to add to the noise, and Vincenzo, and other servants, even the magnificent Cesar, and at last Peter, from his workroom. Peter, who glanced for a full five stricken seconds into Importuna's bedroom. Then he reached in and grasped the handle of the door and pulled it viciously to. And grabbed the shrieker by both arms, cast her bodily at Crump, and shouted, “Do something human for once in your life, will you? Take care of Mrs. Importuna. The police—I've got to call the police.”

SEPTEMBER AND OCTOBER, 1967

The fantasia of the Importuna-Importunato case (all involved in the investigation agreed that the murder-suicide-murder sequence of the brothers' fate constituted three links in the same chain) was, for Ellery, only beginning. Its incredibilities induced the kind of ratiocinative headache he normally enjoyed looking back on in the pain-free aftermath of success; but during the migraine of the Importuna affair, with its brain-cell-smashing bombardment by a veritable ammo dump of number 9s, he found himself wishing at times that he had chosen a simpler avocation, like pursuing the FitzGerald-Lorentz contraction to the infinite end of the finite universe or inventing a convincing explanation of the Möbius strip.

The immediate facts of Nino Importuna's murder were unpromising enough to please the most passionate partisan of lawlessness and disorder. The industrialist had dined
a casa
with his wife and confidential secretary at the conclusion of a happy holiday, his combined 68th birthday and fifth wedding anniversary; during dinner he had suddenly complained of dizziness and stomach pains, but he had shaken off a suggestion to call his physician, saying that his indisposition was not serious enough for medical treatment; he had refused assistance and retired to his private quarters under his own power after promising to take a home remedy and go to bed.

In his bedroom he had summoned his valet, Vincenzo Ricci, and told the man to get him out of his clothes and turn down his bed. He had then dismissed Ricci for the night. As Vincenzo was leaving he had seen his employer, in the bathroom, reach into the medicine chest. The valet was apparently the last person, aside from the murderer, to have seen Importuna alive. No, Mr. Importuna had not seemed very sick, merely in a little distress.

Mrs. Importuna said that she had not entered her husband's bedroom that night, or even looked in on him, for fear of awakening him. “If he were feeling worse,” she told the first detectives to reach the scene, the men who were officially carrying the case, “he would either have rung for Vincenzo or called me. As I heard nothing I assumed he was asleep and feeling all right.”

Peter Ennis, the secretary, had left the penthouse immediately after Mrs. Importuna and he finished their dessert, he said, and he had gone home to his bachelor pad; he occupied an apartment in a converted brownstone a few blocks west.

A small bottle of aspirin, a large bottle of milk of magnesia with the cap off, and a tablespoon coated white with the dried antacid-laxative, were standing on the marble counter beside the washbasin in the bathroom.

The body, dressed in the silk pajamas which Vincenzo Ricci testified to having laid out for him the previous evening, was lying in the king-size bed covered by a light summer silk comforter. Only the head was exposed, what remained of it. There was a great deal of blood on the bedclothes and headboard, very little elsewhere. Unlike the case of Julio Importunato, his brother's head had been the target of repeated blows; the medical examiner counted 9 different skull fractures. Apparently Importuna had been bludgeoned to death in his sleep. There was no sign of a struggle, and nothing—according to the valet—was missing or out of place.