The Malaspiga Exit (13 page)

‘I don't know,' she said. ‘I'll get myself a job, try to settle down. I haven't made any plans. How about you? Are you going to stay here indefinitely?'

He shrugged. ‘Alessandro wants me to,' he said. ‘And it's a big temptation. I came here without any money. I did odd jobs to earn enough to keep myself going, and now that I think about it, I guess I starved for about three months. Then somebody told me there was a job repairing some stonework at the villa, so I went along. I met Alessandro—he asked to see my work and, presto! he became my patron. I stayed on at the school for another year, studying, and then they insisted that I live with them and work on an exhibition. So I spend most of my time at the Castle.'

‘And do you like having a patron?' Katharine asked him. ‘Isn't it a little old-fashioned?'

‘Of course it is,' he smiled. ‘But then you must have realized that Alessandro is not a modern man. He's a Renaissance prince, born into the wrong century. That's how he thinks and how he acts. He believes in my work; he'll support me for as long as I'll let him. His ancestors did the same. Your ancestors, I should say.'

‘That's a very good description of him,' Katharine said slowly. ‘He took me to the crypt to see Duke Alfredo. The likeness is uncanny.'

‘He showed it to me too, soon after we met,' John Driver said. ‘I've done some casts of the face. It's superb, beautiful. But then Alessandro is a beautiful man, don't you think so?'

‘Yes,' she agreed. ‘Yes, I suppose he is.'

‘How much do you like him?' She looked up in surprise to find him watching her. He had grey eyes and they were worried.

‘Very much. He's been so kind to me.'

‘Would it make you mind if I offered some advice?'

‘It would depend on the advice,' she said, ‘but I don't think so. Go on.'

‘Don't fall for him,' Driver said. ‘If he's making a play for you, and I guess he is, then don't be fooled. Alessandro loves women, but they don't mean a thing to him. You'd only get hurt.'

‘You needn't worry about me,' she said quietly. ‘In the first place I don't go for married men; in the second, Alessandro's not my type. I'm not likely to take him seriously. I do know something about men.'

‘I'm sure,' he said. ‘But don't underestimate him. He has a habit of getting what he wants.'

‘Well, he won't get me,' she said.

‘Okay.' He smiled at her; he was immensely likeable; there was a gaucheness about him which was touching. ‘And we're still friends?'

‘Of course. It was nice of you to warn me.'

‘I was thinking of Francesca too,' he admitted. ‘Much as I owe Alessandro, there are times when I just can't forgive him for the way he treats her.'

‘She looks unhappy,' Katharine said.

‘She's miserable,' John said simply. ‘She has been for years. She hasn't had children and you know what that means to an Italian family. And he's the last of the line. He's never forgiven her for it. And she can't forgive herself. And there's no question of divorce. Anyway …' Driver managed a smile; he still seemed awkward, as if he couldn't accept her assurance that she wasn't angry. ‘People have to live their own lives. It upsets me to see them making such a mess of things, especially when they've done so much for me. I wish I could help, but I can't.'

‘Francesca said you were a genius,' Katharine said. She watched his face and saw a sudden change in the expression.

‘She shouldn't say that,' he said. ‘It isn't true. I have talent, but I don't have the immortal gift. One time I thought I had—I dreamed of creating something like the beauty I see round me here in Florence. And I can create beauty. That's not a boast. But it falls short. Always: there's something missing. That's when I need Alessandro. He gives me confidence, he builds me up again. He's wonderful that way. Francesca just likes me; she's grateful because I'm nice to her. That's why she talks about me being a genius.' He looked at Katharine and grinned. ‘I don't even have an artistic temperament.'

‘I hope I'll see your work,' she said, and she meant it. He had a human quality which she found comforting. She felt he was a man upon whom one could rely. An innocent sheltered by a wolf. She wondered what he would say about his patron if he knew what he was doing. They had lingered over coffee and he was drinking Strega, which she refused. Her courage had been so low since the previous night; now she felt stronger, her resolution had returned. She leaned towards him. ‘Tell me,' she said. ‘Tell me about Malaspiga Castle.'

‘This is great news,' Ben Harper said. ‘When that consignment comes over here, we'll have them cold. She's done exactly what I hoped she'd do.'

‘Then why don't you bring her home?' Frank Carpenter said. ‘The job's finished and she's still alive. She should be recalled at once.'

Harper looked at him, making a bridge of his fingers. He had suspected Carpenter's attitude to Katharine Dexter very soon after he undertook her training. It wasn't as impersonal as he pretended. He wasn't just arguing on behalf of an agent. If it had been Firelli, no one would have suggested he be pulled out at such a crucial stage.

‘Frank,' he said slowly, ‘she's got to stay on. She's got to identify that stuff for us. Then she can testify that it's the same as Malaspiga's goods. Otherwise how can we prove it wasn't switched, or other pieces carrying the dope weren't added after it left his possession? We've got to
prove
this case and smash this whole organization. Just how much heroin could they pack into a load of antiques—Jesus, it could be the biggest catch we've ever made! I can't call the girl home now. I want her to get to that stuff and mark some of it, if she can. Then I'll recall her.'

‘Okay,' Frank said. ‘Okay. I can't argue with that, but I don't like it. It's asking her to take additional risks. I think she's done enough.'

‘Nobody else can get close without arousing their suspicions,' Harper insisted. ‘She's got herself inside and they've accepted her. Nobody suspects anything and they won't. She'll come out of it all right. How is your end of the investigation going?'

‘I'm flying up to Beverly Hills again tomorrow,' Frank said. ‘I want to check on Eddi Taylor and his connections there and I want a few questions answered about Mrs. John Julius.'

‘What do the files say?'

‘The usual. Wealthy socialite marries star, that sort of guff. Pictures of them getting married, on yachts and in night spots. Pictures of her playing hostess and raising money for charity. There isn't a single smell anywhere. The only gossip item I dug up never came to anything.'

‘What was it?'

‘A piece in Harriet Harrison's column. I brought a photocopy with me. I guessed you'd like to see it.'

Harper took the paper from him. A blurred inset picture of one of Hollywood's most feared and venomous gossip columnists was set on the top right-hand corner, surrounded by a halo of stars. The section mentioning Elise Bohun Julius had been ringed in red pencil.

‘All is not right between the love-birds in John Julius's luxury nest up on Honeymoon Hill. In between entertaining our ducal couple, there's been less billing and cooing between the handsome movie idol and his upper-crust wife and quite a lot of angry squawking, according to what other little birds are whispering. The reason? Well, watch little Harriet's column to find out whether the love-birds have got a cuckoo in their nest.'

Harper gave it back to Frank. ‘So what was the scandal?'

‘There wasn't one,' Carpenter said. ‘She never made the revelation. If you look at the date and that line about a ducal couple, that was written around the time the Malaspigas were visiting.

‘There's a later item mentioning a big party given for them, full of bitch and bite as usual, but about the guests—what director was casting what star on what couch. But nothing against the John Juliuses. Whatever she was going to say about them, she thought better of it.'

‘That woman never thought better of anything unpleasant in her life,' Harper said. ‘If she didn't print it, it must have been because it wasn't vile enough. So there's no lead to anything there.'

‘I'm not sure,' Carpenter said slowly. ‘I'm not happy about a vulture like Harrison letting anybody off the hook. I'm going out to see her while I'm looking into Eddi Taylor. She might have something to tell me.'

‘She's been retired for a long time,' Harper said. ‘I don't know what she's doing now.'

‘She's in a sanatorium,' Carpenter said. ‘I've got an appointment to see her at four o'clock tomorrow. I'll report back direct if I find anything.'

‘Nathan hasn't made any progress,' Harper said. ‘Nothing but dead ends. He says Eddi Taylor's clean. Can't find anything on him.'

‘I know that,' Frank said. ‘But that doesn't tie in with Kate's report. Malaspiga mentioned Taylor, he said he was to accept the consignment of antiques direct. If Jim can't find anything in New York, maybe I'll do better in Hollywood.'

The following morning he flew to California again, and spent the first part of the afternoon checking on Eddi Taylor's antique business. The shop now sold Spanish rugs and iron work. It was owned by an arty little woman with long hair hanging round an old face, yards of coloured beads and an Indian-type dress.

The shop had been selling antiques but of the less-fashionable English and French nineteenth century; it hadn't done well and the owner, whom she remembered by name, sold out to her. She talked openly and at length; Carpenter had difficulty getting away from her. There was nothing, in spite of her appearance, to connect her with drug smuggling. Aside from the middle-aged hippie look, which he suspected was deliberately cultivated, the lady was a shrewd, experienced businesswoman. He had to check on her as a routine, but he didn't feel it would yield anything. Then he took a cab to the Bellair sanatorium, high up in the hills above Hollywood and about a twenty-minute drive from the residential area.

It was a smart, Colonial-type mansion, complete with stuccoed front and pillars, surrounded by beautifully kept grounds, where he could see people sitting, some with a nurse beside them. He went inside and asked for Miss Harrison at the enquiry section. A bright, pretty nurse directed him to the first floor.

‘Room 18, sir. She's expecting you.'

It faced to the back, and when he went inside he saw the magnificent view of the gardens from a window that reached to the floor, even before he saw the woman sitting up in a chair beside it, a coloured rug over her knees.

‘Miss Harrison? It's Frank Carpenter.' He shook her hand and gave her his BNDD card. She glanced at it and gave it back.

‘Sit down, Mr. Carpenter. Pull up a chair near me.'

She wasn't as old as he had expected; surprisingly, she showed traces of being very pretty. Her hair was nicely dressed and was still faintly blonde, the eyes were blue and must once have been her best feature. It was a petite face, lined with pain and bitterness of spirit. When she smiled her mouth twisted on one side.

‘I'll ring for tea,' she Said. ‘I've ordered it but they're so inefficient here you have to remind them of everything.' From what he had seen of the place, Carpenter felt this was unlikely, but he recognized the invalid's malaise. Her left hand was paralysed; it lay white and claw-like on her lap, the palm turned slightly upward.

A nurse appeared in the doorway.

‘You rang, Miss Harrison?'

‘Bring tea for two,' she said. ‘And I'll have some of those coconut biscuits.' She turned back to Carpenter. ‘What can I do for you, Mr. Carpenter? It's a very long time since anyone came to see me. People don't like invalids.'

‘I'm grateful for the appointment,' he said. ‘And I promise not to tire you.'

‘Oh you won't do that!' She laughed. ‘I'm so bored in this crap heap I could scream! If I could walk I'd be out of here in ten seconds flat—but I had a stroke and I'm not mobile any more. Four years ago, and I've been shut up here ever since. Dying by inches. When it comes to you, Mr. Carpenter, make sure you go with a bang, not a whimper. It isn't pleasant.'

‘No,' he said, ‘I'm sure it's not. But I'm surprised you don't have visitors. That must be lonely for you.'

She smiled the painful uneven smile again. ‘You don't think any of the movie colony are going to come up here and hold my hand, do you? They were so shit-scared of me that when I had the stroke they all rushed off to order wreaths, just to make sure. I gave them hell, Mr. Carpenter. I made them shake. They could ass around playing the big star with everyone else, but not with me. I was bigger than Louella, Hedda or Sheila Grahame. Nobody crossed me up and got away with it; and nobody hid anything from me either. That's why you're here, isn't it? You want information.'

‘Yes,' Carpenter said. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?'

‘Go ahead,' she said. ‘And light one for me. How well do you know Hollywood?'

‘I don't know it at all. I came up here last week to talk to John Julius.'

‘Good God.' She laughed again; it was a staccato sound that grated. ‘How was he? Still playing the English gentleman? His father served behind a counter in a hardware store in England. I printed that about him, and he never said a word. But he wasn't a big star then.'

Carpenter took out the photostat copy. ‘You never followed this up,' he said. ‘In fact you never wrote anything about either of them which was at all unfriendly. You were pretty tough on everyone else, but you left the Juliuses alone. Why, Miss Harrison?'

She drew on the cigarette, watching him with the beautiful, embittered eyes. They were carefully shadowed and mascaraed.