The Malaspiga Exit (10 page)

‘What's your plan of attack?'

‘Penetration,' Frank said. ‘From inside.'

‘Jesus,' Nathan muttered. ‘That's giving someone a one-way ticket. Was that what happened to Firelli? I was up to my balls on the Marley case when I heard he'd disappeared. This is all news to me.'

‘That was Firelli,' Carpenter said. ‘But it's the only way to nail the bastards in a hurry. Give them a couple of years more and they'll have grown too big to cut down. We haven't the time to waste. I'm glad you're on this with me, Jim. I've a feeling it'll give me grey hairs. Now I'll buy you a beer.'

‘No.' Nathan shook his head. ‘I'll go home stewed and Marie'll murder me. The way that girl bullies me it's a crime!'

‘The way she spoils you, you mean. You know something—you're the only happily married people I know.'

‘You're getting sour,' Jim Nathan said. His ugly face was soft, the dark eyes mild. ‘You should get married again. It's a great life—with the right girl. I was lucky, Jesus, how lucky—but you mustn't let one bum deal spoil the whole game. Look for a nice girl and try again!'

‘Nice girls don't marry cops,' Frank said. ‘They marry nice guys with regular jobs, reasonable working hours and a pay packet with good money in it. I'm happy single, thanks. It's easier that way.'

‘Okay. I'll be glad to work with you, Frank. What's the connection with California? Anything to do with the agent we're sending in?'

‘No,' Carpenter said. He had a professional dislike of direct questions, even those put by colleagues. And by nature he was a taciturn man. ‘It's just a lead. But I'm hopeful. Give my love to Marie.'

‘I'll do that,' Jim Nathan said. ‘You must come for dinner. I'll talk to her.'

They parted, Nathan on the way to his car. Carpenter stayed on in the bar. He ordered himself a chicken sandwich. By a coincidence they were sitting in the booth where he and Katharine had eaten their first meal. When her message was relayed through from Interpol, Harper had called him in. He hadn't shown any feelings; he was sure that his relief was concealed even from eyes as sharp as Ben Harper's. She was making good progress and her contact said she seemed cheerful and confident. A one-way ticket, Nathan had said. He couldn't afford to think about her; he should never have allowed himself to get personally involved. He lived a celibate life except for occasional pick-ups. Then he paid and left. It was soulless and mechanical but he preferred it. That was the extent of his emotional life until he made love to Katharine Dexter the night before she left for Italy. He hadn't wanted to involve her or get involved himself. He avoided the implications of his anxiety for her, rejected the nostalgia of what he couldn't pretend was just a sexual encounter with an attractive girl. Nothing would have induced him to think of her in terms of being in love. It was difficult enough to fish around in California and drink beer with Jim Nathan while she faced the menace which had destroyed Firelli. He forced her out of his mind; the effort cost him more than he dared admit. He didn't want to go back to his apartment, because it meant being alone, and he knew the problems would chase themselves on a roller coaster through his mind. Loneliness overcame him; it was the first time in years he had felt so isolated from his fellows and so much in need of human company. He thought of Nathan, with his wife, sitting together watching TV, enclosed against the emptiness outside, and felt unhappy and envious. This was also for the first time. He called for coffee and the bill, angry with himself for a weakness he didn't understand. He wouldn't go home. He would go to a late movie. It was a cheerless prospect and he resented it; even when he chose the movie, paid and took his seat, he was depressed. He woke after an hour, found that he'd missed half the main feature, and decided to go home to bed.

‘John,
caro
? Is that you?'

Isabella di Malaspiga was sitting in the garden. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, and sheltered under a canvas umbrella. She had never permitted the sun to scorch her complexion; the modern woman's passion for roasting her skin was incomprehensible to her.

She waved at the figure of John Driver as he crossed the lawn. He turned and came towards her. She smiled, and the exquisite mask broke into a thousand wrinkles.

‘
Caro
,' she said. ‘Come and talk to me; I'm lonely.' Driver bent over and kissed her cheek. She smelled of the pink rose she wore pinned to her blouse. She had used the same scent for forty years; it was made specially for her by a firm of perfumiers in Florence. Its base was attar of roses. She had adopted the flower as her emblem, and her countless lovers had been selected by the gift of the one she was wearing. The old Duchess had always had a sense of theatre, and such gestures delighted her. Again, she had nothing in common with the modern women of her class, who bestowed themselves upon men as casually as if they were giving them a buttonhole. The Duchess had chosen her men from two motives. Attraction and wealth. Her most cherished piece of jewellery was a large diamond and ruby rose, the central bloom mounted on a spring so that it trembled delicately. It was the memento of a brief liasion with a nephew of the King.

John Driver took a chair beside her. They overlooked the lovely formal garden which Katharine had seen from the library window; it was very hot, even for mid-spring, and a distant fountain shimmered in the sunshine.

‘Where did you go to yesterday? I missed you.'

‘I went to look at some bronzes Alessandro liked; I think they look right to me.'

‘You have wonderful taste,' the old lady said. ‘But you should be working on your own pieces, instead of looking at other people's creations. It's wasting your talent: I shall tell Sandro.'

‘I like to help,' John said. ‘And I've plenty of time. You're not to say anything to him about it. Promise me?'

‘Very well. But you must do something for me.'

‘Anything,' he said gently. ‘Just ask.'

‘I'm worried about this cousin, Katharine Dexter.'

‘Why? She seems a nice girl—don't you like her?'

‘John, you are such a baby—liking hasn't got anything to do with it. Anyway, I've never liked my own sex.' She gave a little bright laugh, naturally coquettish.

He leaned over and held her hand. ‘Why are you worried about her? Tell me.'

‘Sandro is interested in her,' she said. Now she was serious; the enormous black eyes were unhappy as she looked at him. ‘I know the signs, John. He's been restless; I hear him and Francesca quarrelling again. Haven't you seen how miserable she's been looking lately? Now this girl comes here; she has taken his fancy; I knew it immediately the first afternoon. I spoke to my florist this morning, and she said he'd sent a huge bouquet of my roses to this girl. They were worried in case they couldn't supply me until the end of the week. And when Sandro starts sending flowers—you know it means another one! More scenes with Francesca, more atmospheres. I'm getting too old for it. It upsets me.'

‘I don't think she'll be impressed,' Driver said. ‘She didn't seem the type to fall for that routine. I wouldn't worry about it too much; she isn't staying long.'

‘You don't know my son,' the old Duchess said. ‘Not when it comes to women. No woman has ever resisted him; not since he was fifteen. This girl isn't going to be the exception.'

‘What do you want me to do?'

‘Take her out,' the Duchess said. ‘Talk to her. Warn her that as far as he's concerned it's just a game. American women don't understand this sort of thing. They don't realize that Italian men never leave their wives and that having a love affair with a stranger means nothing to them. Frighten her off. Please,
caro
, will you do it?'

‘I'll try,' John Driver said.

‘For Francesca's sake,' she added. ‘She takes these things so seriously. If only she'd had children she wouldn't have minded. It's all such a pity. People complicate their lives so. I pity this generation. I always did exactly what I wanted and enjoyed it. You young people have lost the capacity.'

‘Perhaps,' he said. ‘Perhaps you didn't have our sense of guilt.'

‘I was never guilty about anything unless it was ugly or stupid,' she said. ‘Those are the only real sins. I learned that from Sandro's father. I had complete respect for his judgement.'

‘And you have the same for Sandro,' Driver said. ‘He's a natural leader.'

‘And that is the tragedy,' she said. ‘He is the last of the Malaspigas. And I'm responsible. I suggested Francesca for him. He has never once reproached me.'

‘He loves you,' John said gently. ‘He knows you only acted from the best motives. She's everything a man would want in a wife; except for that one rotten piece of luck. She's sweet and gentle.' For a moment his expression tightened; under her heavy painted lids, the old Duchess saw it, as she had seen it many times before. She gave no sign.

‘My son didn't love her,' she interrupted. ‘That was the trouble. None of the Malaspigas can love. I discovered that soon after I was married. It didn't destroy me because I arranged my life accordingly. My husband had mistresses, but there was never any scandal. I had admirers; I was equally discreet. But Sandro flaunts women in her face. It's ugly and I've told him so. I don't want it to happen with this American girl. I'm too old for family dramas. Please, see if you can persuade her to go home quickly. I don't want her coming here.'

‘I'll do my best, and don't you worry. I'll take her out and talk to her.' The Duchess watched him walk away across the lawns to the house. He had a good figure, broad shoulders, narrow hips. Strong and faithful, simple and kind. Her son had found him and taken him up, playing the patron to the artist in the best Florentine tradition. He had become part of the family; the place he occupied was ambiguous, in that they treated him as an equal, she knew he didn't regard himself in the same way. She had little sympathy with her daughter-in-law; she had no patience with jealous wives. Francesca's quarrels with her husband aroused her impatience when she watched the younger woman mishandling the situation. The Canadian was in love with Francesca. The old Duchess could have shaken her daughter-in-law for pretending not to know it. She wouldn't have censured her for having an affair with the sculptor, provided that it was done with discretion. But she cared very much about the disruption of her life; the war had forced reality upon her. She had been comparatively poor, socially ostracized, deprived of the privileges she had taken as a right. Alessandro had restored the balance. Now she was rich, pampered and secure. And that depended upon Alessandro. An Italian mistress, the wife of a friend, a film actress perhaps; none of these would have disturbed her as the American girl with family connections had done. She was different. Her son's reaction to her was different too. His mother knew it, with her sharp survivor's instinct. Her anxiety was increased when Alessandro did not appear for lunch, and the manservant gave her the message that he was spending the afternoon showing Signorina Dexter the sights of the city.

‘How did you like my roses?' He was looking down at her, smiling.

‘They're beautiful,' Katharine said. ‘It was very kind of you.'

The Duke laughed. They were walking across the foyer of her hotel, and heads were swivelling to watch them. ‘Don't be so formal with me,' he said. ‘It wasn't kind at all. I wanted to send them to you. I love roses.'

‘So does your mother,' she said. ‘It must run in the family.'

‘My mother has always worn one; except during the war. My first memory of her as a little boy is the smell of roses and the flower she wore every day. My car is over there. First we will go to the Church of San Miniato al Monte, and I shall take you down into the crypt to see your ancestors; there's a marvellous Bernini tomb, and then we will have lunch.' He took her arm as they went into the street. The low-built Ferrari slid through the traffic up the Viale Galileo to the Viale Michelangelo.

‘What happens to your business,' she asked, ‘when you take days off like this? You must have it very well organized.'

‘I do,' he said. ‘I delegate; isn't that the secret of all successful tycoons? I make the decisions and other people do the work. I can see by your face you don't approve. My dear cousin, that is quite untypical of your family. We never show our feelings! Now you are smiling. That's better.'

‘Why don't you keep your eyes on the traffic,' Katharine suggested. She made a conscious effort not to be affected by the charm. Such a cold man, and yet so warm; so familiar and easy and yet so unapproachable. There were so many contradictions about him that she felt herself swept away in confusion. Know the enemy. Watch them; tune in to their habits, expressions, moods. That way they won't be able to take you by surprise. Whenever she was with Malaspiga she clung to what Frank Carpenter had taught her. But already his image in her mind was blurred. The night they had spent together was going out of focus compared to the reality of Alessandro. He lulled, as deadly as the drugs that stole away the will; he had taken her arm again, guiding her through the dark cool Church of San Miniato al Monte, pausing to point out the magnificent frescoes by Spinello Aretino which decorated the ceiling in the Sacristy, explaining the history of the superb marble pulpit, made for the Urbino dukes and given by them to the Church. She had known men of culture before, but nobody like him. He amused as well as instructed, he made the incidents of centuries alive and relevant and the touch on her arm was as light as it was positive.

‘We'll go to the crypt,' he said. ‘I arranged to bring you this morning. It's only shown at certain hours on Tuesday and Fridays. That's where all our family are buried. Except for two dukes, who died on the Crusades.'