The Malaspiga Exit (15 page)

‘She thinks he's in love with her,' Driver said. ‘And she could be right.' Francesca pulled away from him.

‘In love?' She jerked back her head and laughed angrily. ‘Love? He doesn't know what the word means—he's cold and cruel and selfish …' She turned her head away, trying to hide the tears. Driver put his arms around her, his voice was soft and he soothed her gently.

‘Darling, darling, don't cry … I thought I'd made up for what happened. When I see you upset like this, I feel I've failed you. We know what love means; and that's what matters. You and I.' He forced her to look at him. She clung to him.

‘Forgive me. Forgive me. Of course you haven't failed … I owe everything to you.' She reached up and kissed him passionately. ‘You are my life.'

‘Come upstairs then,' he said. ‘Let's not waste time talking about him.'

In her bedroom on the first floor, so tiny in the enormous Florentine bed that she was only an outline under the covers, the old Duchess di Malaspiga lifted her head from the pillows and listened. The cocktails had worn off; she had dozed for a while and then a noise had woken her. It was the sound of her daughter-in-law's bedroom door closing.

For years she and Sandro had slept in separate rooms. It was an arrangement that distressed the Duchess. A husband and wife should share the same room and the same bed; it preserved the
bella figura
which was so important an aspect of Italian life. Whatever the truth, a proper façade must be presented to the outside world; one's dignity and that of the family was the first consideration. Ladies must always smile in public, however much they might weep privately. But the old standards were lowered; people discussed their problems and exposed their shames in a way that she found offensive and incomprehensible. She folded her hands on her breast and closed her eyes. Her window was slightly open, allowing a little cool air to circulate. Quite clearly, carried from another open window, she heard the low murmur of John Driver's voice and knew that he was in her daughter-in-law's room. She didn't open her eyes; sleep was too near. So they had come together at last. Sandro didn't suspect anything, and that was her only concern. Whatever they did themselves, the Malaspigas didn't like the idea of playing cuckold to their wives. Her own husband, notoriously unfaithful himself, might have suspected her, but she had never offended against good taste or caused an overt scandal. He had no proof and honour didn't demand that he investigate too closely. She hoped her daughter-in-law and the Canadian would show equal good sense. Seconds later she was fast asleep.

Francesca awoke when Driver left her. She lay with her eyes closed, pretending to sleep, while he dressed and slipped away to his own room. She stretched, then ran her hands down her body. Love had been satisfying, they had pleased each other and fallen asleep with tenderness.

She lay alone in the hour before dawn broke and in spite of everything she thought about her husband. His mother thought he was in love. She flung herself round as if a whip had cut across her. Love. Love for the American cousin with the dark Italian eyes. He had never loved anyone in his life; he had used the word to describe the ruthless possession of her when they married. It was the euphemism for lust, the lust for the women who came after her: social acquaintances, a young film actress with a good publicity agent and a marvellous figure, women who drifted briefly in and out of his life. She knew about them all because she had spied on him; whenever there was a suggestion of a woman, Francesca had applied herself to finding out the details. It was a form of self-torture which she couldn't resist. There were moments of insight which suggested that it was a deliberate punishment for an old sin, but such revelations were rare and instantly rejected. She had no need to feel guilt for what to her had been so natural. It was her husband who deserved the blame. His pride, his condemnation, that terrible year after their marriage …

She tried to turn her thoughts to John, but instead they reverted to Alessandro, dwelling on the idea which caused her such frantic pain. He was in love. The tenderness, the sense of union which transcended mere sexuality—these were things which she couldn't permit him to share with another woman. He had refused them to her. That one night when she had begged … She sat up in bed, trembling. It was just as if John Driver hadn't held her in his arms that night. Hate blotted out everything else.

She threw back the covers and went to the window; she was unaware of her nakedness. The relaxation of making love was gone; she stood watching the sun rise over the villa gardens, frigid with jealousy. He was in love with Katharine Dexter. She let the curtain fall back, the room was dark again. She found her nightdress and put it on. There was nothing to do but wait until she could decently get up and go downstairs.

There was a moment when Frank Carpenter was sorry for Harriet Harrison. The ashtray was full of cigarette ends and the room was stuffy with smoke and the scent of an indefinable decay.

‘Why did you keep this quiet so long?' he said. ‘Why didn't you spill it?'

‘Because they had a habit of throwing acid at people who crossed them,' she answered. ‘Now I don't give a damn. Nobody sees me anyway. I had plenty going for me in those days.' She smiled her bitter smile and held out her good hand. ‘I hope I've been some help,' she said.

‘You'll never know how much,' Carpenter answered. ‘I think you've just saved someone's life. Could I come and see you again sometime?'

‘Sure,' she shrugged. ‘Any time you want some information …' He glanced back at her as he opened the door; she was staring out of the window at the view of the gardens. He wondered how much longer she would go on sitting there, paying for what she had done to other people. He had kept the cab that brought him from the Beverly Hills shop; he drove back to the city and booked into a hotel. The following morning he had an appointment with one of the smart lawyers who looked after the affairs of the rich. He spent an hour there, looking through the files. Then he telephoned to John Julius and asked to see him urgently.

The same Hawaiian manservant showed him in; the reception lounge seemed smaller, less modern than when he had last seen it. Perspective showed it to be out of date, an
avant-garde
effect of several years ago. He was grateful for the air conditioning; it was hot outside.

John Julius kept him waiting; when he came in and Carpenter saw the look on his face he knew that the delay was due to fear. He had been nerving himself for the interview; his breath smelt of whisky. No champagne and orange juice that morning. They shook hands; he felt that Julius didn't want to touch him.

‘Why have you come back here? What do you want?'

‘The truth,' Frank Carpenter said. ‘I went to see Harriet Harrison yesterday.'

‘Oh God,' John Julius muttered. He sat down, his body sagging. ‘I thought she was dead …'

‘She told me about Elise,' Carpenter said quietly. ‘I'd like to say I'm very sorry. It must have been pretty tough on you.'

‘Tough?' He gave a bark of laughter; the whites of his eyes were streaked with red. ‘Son, you've no idea! Living with it was bad enough, but keeping it quiet … And I could never be sure it wouldn't leak out. Then Harriet dug it up. She's a bitch out of hell, that woman—if you knew the lives she's ruined …'

‘I can imagine,' Carpenter said quietly. ‘But you shut her up, didn't you? She didn't dare follow up her story.'

‘I went to Elise's uncle,' John Julius said. ‘He said to leave it with him. I don't know how he stopped her and I never asked.'

‘She told me she had visitors,' Carpenter said. ‘They promised her a face full of acid if she printed anything.'

‘Too good for her,' he snapped. ‘Two of my best friends here in Hollywood committed suicide because of what she wrote about them. It ruined their careers and bust their marriages. She's the only really evil woman I know.'

‘When did you find out your wife was an addict?' Carpenter lit a cigarette. The handsome, haggard face turned slowly towards him.

‘Six months after I married her,' he said. ‘I was very much in love. She was a lovely girl; it wasn't just the money. I found the “horse” in her bedroom. It nearly broke me. I wanted her to take a cure. She wouldn't. She said she could cope with the problem so long as she got the stuff.'

‘And she wouldn't have any difficulty with that,' Carpenter said.

‘No,' Julius agreed. ‘It was all laid on for her.'

‘Harrison told me about the Malaspigas,' Carpenter said. ‘That was true too?'

‘Yes.' He covered his face with his hands for a moment. ‘They change,' he muttered. ‘The drugs change them. She wasn't that way when I married her …' He got up, he seemed unsteady. Suddenly he looked an old man, the façade of middle-aged charm had cracked open, showing a ruin underneath. ‘I need a drink,' he said. ‘I used to drink a lot at first. Then I pulled myself together. I made the best of it; and I hoped maybe one day she'd try … So long as nobody knew … You want a Scotch?'

‘No thanks,' Frank said. ‘Nothing for me. Tell me about Eddi Taylor—how did he fit in with your wife?'

‘He ran an antique business over on Sunset,' Julius said. He poured a large whisky into a glass and swallowed half of it. He turned back to Carpenter. ‘How did you find out about that?'

‘I went to see her lawyer this morning,' he said. ‘He told me about her business affairs. She owned the shop and set Taylor up in business. When she died the executors sold it out.' There was a deep frown on Carpenter's face, and it wasn't connected with John Julius. ‘It didn't take much to find that out. But I want you to tell me how it happened.'

‘She met Taylor when she was buying antiques. He had an apartment on East 52nd in New York, and she was furnishing it. They got on well and she staked him in a business of his own out here. I thought he was a creep.'

‘You were right,' Carpenter said. ‘Why was her connection with it kept a secret?'

‘I don't know; she was a snob, I told you that. She didn't want anyone to know she was investing in a business right here in town. She never invited Taylor up here or mixed with him socially. Tell me something, Mr. Carpenter—why are you digging all this up? She's dead, what good will it do?'

‘I'm not interested in your wife,' Frank said. ‘I want the people she was connected with. I want the racketeers who sell the drugs and the smugglers who bring it in. And don't worry, none of this will be made public. You've nothing to fear from that.'

‘That's good to know.' He finished the drink. ‘We built up a life together. Maybe it was a lie in part, but some of what we had was good. I don't want to see it exposed now. I did care for her.'

‘And being who she was,' Frank said quietly, ‘I guess you'd have found it difficult to leave her?'

Julius smiled a wry smile; it was one of his trade marks as a movie star. ‘You don't leave a man with many illusions, do you? Maybe you're right. Maybe I knew I couldn't leave her, so I told myself I didn't want to. Live with a lie long enough, and you end up believing it's true.'

‘I want to know about her family,' Carpenter said. ‘Not the Bohuns, the others.'

‘Ah yes,' Julius smiled again. The whisky was having an effect. ‘The grandfather, the uncles, the cousins. I can tell you a bit about them. But you'll have to be careful, son. They were very proud of Elise. Just don't let any of them know you're snooping.…'

Two hours later Frank Carpenter was on the plane back to New York. He telephoned Ben Harper's office from the airport. His secretary said he had gone to Chicago.

‘Jim Nathan's here,' the girl said. ‘He wants to see him too. He won't be back till Monday. Are you coming in?'

‘Yes,' Frank said. ‘Put Jim on, will you?'

Nathan sounded cheerful. ‘Hi, Frank. Where are you?'

‘Kennedy,' Frank said. ‘What's new with you, Jim?'

‘Nothing.' The voice sounded flat. ‘Dead ends everywhere. How about you? You get anything up in Hollywood?'

There was a small mirror set above the telephone in the booth. Carpenter saw his own reflection in it.

‘No,' he said. ‘I got nothing either. I was hoping you'd have had some luck with Taylor.'

‘Not a chance,' the answer was emphatic. ‘I've checked and double-checked. He's absolutely clean.' Frank put a hand to the back of his neck; he was ashamed to feel in clichés but the small hairs were on end.

‘Too bad,' he said. ‘I'll be seeing you, Jim.' He hung up. Clean. Checked and double-checked. He had known Jim Nathan for fifteen years, ever since he joined the Bureau. He was a straight man; he hated crime and he hated drugs. He had a reputation for being too tough. But he was lying about Taylor and Frank knew it. He had lied about the Beverly Hills shop. A routine enquiry would have established Elise Julius as the owner. Instead he had pretended that it belonged to Taylor, and done his best to head Carpenter off. ‘I've checked very carefully. He bought the place, ran it for a year or two, then sold out … No connection there.' Lies, deliberate lies told to mislead an investigation. From the start he had tried to cover for Taylor. He's clean. He has no record. Nothing illegal about it. He could hear Nathan saying it, looking him in the eyes and shaking his head.

Taylor had been mentioned in Kate Dexter's report, and because he had used the time before going to see Harriet Harrison to call on Elise's lawyer, Carpenter had found the second, and equally sinister connection. Nathan hadn't expected him to follow that up; he thought he'd diverted the investigation. Carpenter came out of the telephone cubicle; he stood still for a moment. He had known about Nathan as soon as he talked to the lawyer, but he had needed time to adjust, to accept that his friend wasn't dealing the cards straight. Now there was no doubt; no chance that it was merely carelessness. He was going out of his way to keep Taylor clear of the investigation. And that meant only one thing. He was on Taylor's payroll. He got his car out of the airport parking lot and drove towards the city. Ben Harper was in Chicago. And Nathan was in his office. Harper was keeping a special file on the Malaspiga case; it included Katharine Dexter's last report. Frank had seen Harper put it in the folder. Everything was there in Harper's office, the plan for using Katharine as an undercover agent, her reports, Raphael's messages. Everything.