The Malaspiga Exit (31 page)

She looked round the clinical white-and-green kitchen, with its gadgets and ranks of gleaming stainless-steel units, a central stove in the middle of the floor. It looked like an operating theatre. Moonlight flooded through the window. She crept to the back door and very carefully slid back the top and bottom bolts. Outside, it was cold and brilliantly light. She hesitated, not sure which way to go. The walls reached up above her like cliffs; she felt as if they were pierced with eyes that watched her, mocking her hope of escape. She moved along them, looking for the outline of the West Tower. Beyond that, and reached through a small gate, was the main courtyard where they had parked the car. She ran her hand along the rough stone, scraping the skin; it was unnecessary in the bright moonlight, but she was being moved by instinct, finding her way by touch as well as by sight.

The gate was locked from the inside; she turned the key and opened it very carefully. The car stood in the shadows, waiting.

The first place Alessandro went to was his mother's bedroom. The habit of his lifetime was to make sure that she was unharmed. He had left Katharine in her own bedroom, wrapped up against shock, and locked the door after him. She had looked small and defenceless lying on the bed, a look of despair and anguish on her face that he couldn't understand. He knocked on the old Duchess's door and went inside. There was always a small light burning in case she needed to reach out and ring for Gia, her personal maid, and by the light of it he saw that she was awake. She pulled herself up on the pillows; her thick dark hair was hanging loose round her shoulders.

‘Sandro? What is the matter?'

‘Nothing.' He came to the bedside. ‘Did I wake you?'

‘No,' his mother said. ‘I heard a door close, I think that was what woke me up. You look strange—is something wrong?'

It never occurred to him to tell her. His function was not only to command but to protect. His mother couldn't be exposed to what had happened. He bent down to her with a smile and kissed her.

‘I want to talk to Francesca. I thought she might have come in here; she isn't in her room.'

Isabella di Malaspiga hesitated. The door which had shut so loudly was across the passage. She knew it was where John Driver slept. It wouldn't do if her son were to be presented with the evidence of that affair. She gave a sweet smile in return and shook her head. ‘No, I haven't seen her. Why don't you wait till morning? It must be very late.'

‘You go to sleep,' he said gently.

‘You're sure there's nothing wrong?' She asked the question against her will, not wanting her fear of the unpleasant confirmed. She had only seen her son with that look of taut determination on his face once, and that was when he came back from his honeymoon. And he had never told her what went wrong.

‘Go to sleep,' he said again. He took the key out of her door without her noticing and locked it from the outside. His mother and Katharine were safe. He started back down the corridor to look for his wife. Chance made him glance through one of the windows as he hurried by, and in the courtyard, clearly visible in the moonlight, he saw the car. He took the last flight of steps to the main hall at a run. Driver's gun was in his pocket. Francesca came out from the shelter of the gateway. There was no one in the courtyard; the main door to the Castle was closed. She drew in a deep breath, unwilling to leave the shadows even though the car and safety was only a few yards away from her. A cloud crossed the face of the bright moon. She made a short dash forward and dragged the door open.

‘Francesca!' She cried out in terror as he stepped forward; the moon burst through the cloud and she could see him clearly, pointing the gun at her. ‘Don't move,' he said, ‘or I will kill you.'

The impact of terror left her. At one moment she was paralysed, her hand on the open door of the car, rooted by fear. The next she felt nothing. Her shivering had stopped.

‘Come away from the car!' Alessandro ordered.

‘No,' she said. ‘I know—she's dead and you're going to kill me!'

‘Come away from the car!' Alessandro ordered.

He took a step towards her.

‘Katharine is safe,' he said. ‘This time it didn't work. Uncle Alfredo saw you taking a man to the East Tower; the American dealer who called himself Firelli. You murdered him, just as you tried to murder her. But you didn't succeed. It's John who is dead.'

She didn't move. Tears crept down her face. ‘I knew it,' she whispered. ‘I heard the shots. I knew it.'

‘Why did you do it? Murder, drug smuggling—why, Francesca?'

Slowly she raised her head and looked at him; one hand wiped the tears away.

‘Because I hated you,' she said. ‘You shamed me and abused me because of Elise. When I begged you, you wouldn't forgive—you made me what I am. So we deceived you. She and I. Blackmailing you was my idea. I knew how you would feel about people knowing. I knew you'd do anything to protect your name. And you thought you were being so clever—turning the situation to your own advantage. Making use of John and growing rich. But we made use of you. I remember the first block of marble being delivered here for John. By courtesy of the Mafia in Naples. Hollowed out and packed with heroin. You were such a fool, Alessandro. So proud and sure of yourself. Ignoring and despising me; taunting me with your cheap mistresses. And then
she
came!'

She looked wild in the moonlight, her eyes staring, their make-up smudged by crying. She crouched by the car like an animal. ‘You wouldn't forgive me—but you loved her. I knew, I knew as soon as I saw you together. You think you'll save yourself by killing me, and nobody will know? But she's a narcotics agent—a spy! You'll go to jail for life for smuggling heroin, and
she's
the one who'll send you there. How much do you love her now?'

‘Francesca …'

‘I hate you,' she shouted. The sound reverberated back at them from the high walls. ‘I hate you! Everyone else I loved you've taken from me. Elise—and now John! When he touched me he made me forget you and what you'd done to me! Now you've killed him. But you won't escape, Malaspiga. I've nothing to live for without him; I don't care what happens to me now. But you're going to jail for the rest of your life!' She wrenched the door back and sprang into the driver's seat. She put her head out of the window and called him a foul name.

Alessandro took aim at the nearside tyre of the car and pulled the trigger. There was a useless dick. He had fired the last bullet into Driver's body. There was a roar as Francesca accelerated. The car shot forward, heading for the dark mouth of the main gateway. There was a screech as it turned, scattering stones and for a second its red tail-lights glimmered. He stood looking after it, the useless gun hanging from his hand. She had gone, God knew where. Insane with grief and hate, she was capable of anything. He turned and went back inside the Castle. One of the servants was coming into the main hall, struggling into his jacket over pyjamas. The noise of the car had awoken some of the staff—if the Duke required anything.…

Alessandro had slid his hand in his pocket. There was nothing he needed. He told the man to go to bed. Then slowly he began to walk up the main stairs towards Katharine's room. When he unlocked the door and went inside he saw that Katharine had got up. She was sitting in a chair with the light switched on behind her. Her face was in shadow. When he came close he could see that she had been crying.

‘You should have kept warm,' he said. ‘You are suffering from shock!'

She looked at him. ‘You made a mistake,' she said slowly. ‘You shouldn't have interfered. You should have let them kill me.'

He felt in his pocket, threw the empty gun on the bed and walked to the table beside it. There was a silver box with cigarettes. He took two and lit them.

‘Because of the heroin?' He crossed to her and put the cigarette to her lips. She took it in her fingers.

‘That's why I'm here,' she said. ‘I enrolled in the Narcotics Bureau just to come out and get evidence against you.'

‘I know that,' Alessandro said. ‘Driver told me before I shot him. My wife just taunted me with it. She called you a spy.' He stood looking down at Katharine. ‘Is that why you were crying—because you believe I am guilty and you'd have to give me up to the police?'

‘I haven't any choice,' Katharine said slowly. ‘Unless you decide not to let me go. There's nothing I can do to stop you'.

‘Are you suggesting', he said quietly, ‘that I would hurt you to save myself?'

‘You killed Firelli,' Katharine said. ‘He died in that dreadful room.'

‘I see,' he said. He looked at the end of his cigarette, blew a little to make it glow red. ‘So I am a drag smuggler and a murderer. But I saved your life because I am in love with you. Isn't that a little silly?'

‘It's what happened,' she said.

‘I don't think your American policemen would agree with you. The Italians might, because we can be great sentimentalists. And I should be tried in an Italian court. Perhaps there's some hope for me.' He played with the cigarette again. ‘Anyway, I don't think you'll have to do very much. I believe Francesca will be the star witness.'

Katharine looked up quickly. ‘She's gone?'

‘Yes. I didn't kill her either. I couldn't even shoot the tyres out in the car because there weren't any bullets left. I'd forgotten that. I'm not a very efficient murderer.' Katharine got up; she felt weak and uneasy. His mood had changed completely; he seemed to be mocking her.

‘Where has she gone?'

‘To the
carabinieri
. Probably at Massa. They might not listen to anything so sentational in Malaspiga itself. They think quite well of me, I understand.'

‘But she can't denounce you—she was in it too!'

‘I don't think she cares what happens to her. I think she started by trying to escape and when she left she was determined to have vengeance. For John Driver. My good friend the sculptor. It seems they were lovers too. Before she gets back with the police, I want to ask you something. A favour.'

‘What is it?' Katharine didn't want to look at him.

‘I want to show you something. Will you come and look at it?' She hesitated. She had hated and feared and finally loved him. The sight of him standing there, already ruined, with that smile on his lips caused her unbearable pain.

‘All right,' she said.

‘Thank you,' he said gravely. ‘I don't want you to think any worse of me than is deserved.' He opened the bedroom door and held it for her to pass. They crossed the hall and through the armoury; he didn't touch her or speak. He walked ahead and Katharine followed, past the sinister suits of armour, shimmering in the moonlight, retracing the steps she had taken that night. In the Banqueting Hall he paused and looked back at her. ‘We're going down to the store-room,' he said. ‘Be careful of the steps, they're very steep.'

‘I know,' Katharine answered. ‘I was down there when Driver caught me.'

He came back and took her arm. ‘Don't think about it,' he said quietly. With the light flaring above them, they descended into the big room below the Banqueting Hall. A little earlier she had run for her life from it. She would never forget that moment, so like a classic nightmare, when the door at the head of the stairs flung open and she found Francesca waiting for her.

‘Now,' Alessandro said. ‘You wanted to look at this this morning. I wouldn't let you. You will see why in a moment.' They were standing in front of the picture, shrouded in its green cover.

‘That's why I came back tonight,' she said. ‘To mark it for identification.'

‘Well, you shall look at it now.' He stepped up to the picture and pulled the cover off. Katharine stared at it in disbelief.

There, framed in a magnificent Florentine wood frame, was the Giorgione she had seen in the gallery upstairs. The same exquisite colouring, the same grace and tenderness, the distinctive use of form and design which marked the great artist's work from all imitators. She turned to Alessandro. ‘You're selling this? But you said …'

‘I said I'd never sell my Giorgione,' he answered. ‘This is not the picture upstairs. This is a forgery.' He pulled the cover back over the painting. ‘That was John Driver's great talent. He was a poor sculptor, as you were quick enough to recognize. But he was one of the greatest forgers of old masters since Van Meegeren. That picture was sold for a million and a quarter dollars to a New York collector. Through the agency of an antique dealer called Taylor. It is fully authenticated.'

‘But how? How could you get away with it?'

‘Two art experts from Florence came here last week and saw the real Giorgione. They naturally gave it a certificate. John had spent a year in copying it. The collector believes he is buying the Malaspiga picture. As nobody will ever see my Giorgione again, and as John's work is undetectable—he's deceived experts from all over the world, long before he painted this—I shall never be discovered.'

She said slowly, not looking at him, ‘And this was what you were doing—selling fakes? Not heroin?'

‘Never heroin,' the Duke answered. He took her by the shoulders. ‘Look at me, Katharine. I never touched drugs. I never knew anything about it, and I wouldn't have trafficked whatever the money. I sold fakes to people who believed they'd been looted from churches in Italy and were prepared to gloat over stolen paintings in private. I sold to rich men who thought they were getting a bargain at the expense of a poor Italian duke who was forced to sell his family treasures. I cheated, and if you like to think of it, I stole a great deal of money. But I give you my word of honour that nothing, not even the blackmail which started all this, nothing would have made me smuggle drugs. I beg you to believe that.'