The Malaspiga Exit (4 page)

‘We'd miss you, John.' It was the first contribution Francesca di Malaspiga had made. ‘Sandro and I will keep you for ever, if we can.' She handed her empty cup to one of the servants; the old Duchess gave a signal and the service was cleared away.

‘You have a very warm-hearted family, Miss Dexter,' John Driver said. ‘They've been just wonderful to me.'

‘If you would like to come to the library with me,' the Duke said, ‘I could show you the portrait of my aunt. The likeness is extraordinary.'

It seemed a long way to walk down the room; one of the white-coated servants had gone ahead and he opened the door for them. She passed through first, followed by her cousin. She wondered if he ever opened anything for himself, or whether a servant was on duty even in the bedroom he shared with that unhappy-looking wife.

In the hallway he paused. ‘We can go to the library first,' he said. ‘And then I could take you for a little tour. We have a lot of family portraits here, and a number of bronzes. Are you in a hurry?'

Katharine looked into the smiling face. The charm was very powerful; he was using it deliberately, like someone displaying a talent. He wanted her to stay and see round the villa. For all his exquisite manners, he wouldn't have suggested it otherwise. ‘I'm not in a hurry,' she said. ‘But I don't want to be a nuisance.'

‘That wouldn't be possible,' the Duke said gently. ‘It isn't every day one finds a beautiful cousin from America. Come, this way.' He took her by the arm; his touch was light, reminding her suddenly of the strong, hard fingers of Frank Carpenter when he had held her in his arms that last night. Alessandro didn't grip, he guided. There was no resemblance between them, except that both gave the impression of great physical strength. He brought her to the library.

‘This is my favourite room,' he said. ‘My mother prefers the long salon; she adores the tapestries, but I find them musty. I like the smell of wood and learner.' So that was what she had noticed about the long room. The smell of tapestries woven hundreds of years before, perhaps hanging undisturbed for years.

‘This is lovely,' Katharine said, and it was true. It was a beautifully proportioned room, panelled in oak, with three walls of books behind exquisite grill work. There was another twelve-foot fireplace, the Malaspiga coat of arms in carved wood above it. The floor was marble, the furniture very old and dark; an enormous iron chandelier hung above their heads.

‘Here,' the Duke said, ‘is your aunt. Now, isn't she like you?' It was a pastel portrait, as big as a large photograph, standing in an elaborate gilt frame on one of the side tables. It showed a young woman in the fashion of twenty years ago, blonde and dark-eyed, and remarkably like herself.

‘You're right,' Katharine said. ‘There is a look; even I can see it, and it's very difficult to see a likeness to yourself. What was her name?'

‘Elisabetta di Carnevale; she was a famous beauty. She married a Venetian; he was a prince with a fortune. That's a rare commodity for our aristocracy these days. We've begun to marry rich American ladies.'

‘That's surely an old European habit,' Katharine answered. ‘The English and French have been doing it for years.'

He laughed. ‘You mustn't mind if I tease you, my dear cousin. It's only my way, and I always tease people I like. And I like you. I adore America and Americans, so don't misunderstand me.'

‘Have you been to the States?'

‘Yes; some years ago. I went there on honeymoon with Francesca. She hated it. I found it very exciting.'

‘And when was that? How long have you been married?'

‘Seven years,' he said. ‘Look, here is a little gem. Bernini carved that bust of our ancestor, the sixth Duke. He has a wicked face, don't you think? He's supposed to look like me.'

‘He doesn't,' she said.

‘You're very forthright,' he remarked. There was a flash of expression in the dark eyes. He wasn't used to being contradicted.

‘Most Americans are,' Katharine said. ‘You must have noticed that. Tell me, where did you go in the States?'

Now the memory which Carpenter had trained was tuned like a machine, waiting to record every detail. Information was what they wanted: when he had gone to the States, how long and where he had stayed. Any contact he might have made.

‘We went to New York first, then on to California to stay with friends of my father—Hollywood, of course. I was fascinated.'

She could imagine he would be; equally, the people whose business was fantasy must have been fascinated by him.

‘Did anyone offer you a film contract?'

‘How funny you should ask—yes, they did. I was very flattered. Francesca was horrified. Some of her attitudes are very bourgeois—odd, because she is very well born.'

It was not even subtle, and this surprised her. He should have been a subtle man, smooth and deft at hinting; there was no mistaking the contempt with which he spoke of his wife.

He took out a gold cigarette case; she saw the coronet in rubies and diamonds at the corner. He lit a cigarette. ‘I'm sorry, do you smoke? Nobody does in the house except me. I forget about visitors.'

‘Thank you.' They were long, filtered, with a monogram printed on them. Specially made for him.

‘I have the papers concerning your grandmother here,' he said. ‘But I'm not going to show them to you today. Then you will have to come again.'

‘I was hoping you'd invite me.' Katharine wasn't good at playing this kind of game, but he was a master, and he made it easy for her. He seemed to be enjoying the light fencing match, through which his attraction towards her flashed like a beacon.

Women would find him an irresistible force. ‘I'll take you upstairs now,' he said. ‘And then we'll rejoin my family in the salon.'

‘Who did you stay with in California—someone connected with the film world?'

‘Yes, a couple called John Julius and his wife. He was a famous star before the war; he'd met my father in Italy and they became friends. He took us everywhere and showed us everything. Turn up these stairs here and be careful of that rug at the top: it slips.' Again the grip on her elbow, pretending to support her. She eased herself free of him as they walked down a wide landing.

‘Portraits,' he said. ‘All Malaspigas, but of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The earlier pictures are at the Castle. Over there is your great-great-grandfather.'

It was an unattractive portrait, showing a man standing three-quarter length in the dress of the early eighteenth century. He had a dark, arrogant face with a black beard. She stared at the picture without emotion. ‘Federigo di Malaspiga, second son of the tenth Duke,' her cousin said. ‘His son was your grandmother's father. There is no picture of him, but your great-grandmother is over there.'

‘She looks very proud,' Katharine said. ‘I don't envy my grandmother when she wanted to marry a poor man.'

‘A common man,' Alessandro corrected. ‘Poverty was not a disgrace in those days, whatever stigma is attached to it now. Your grandmother wanted to marry a social inferior. That was impossible.'

She didn't answer; to call him snobbish and old-fashioned was a pointless truism. Living in a house like the villa, surrounded by the ritual of a world which only existed for the few, made such an attribute inevitable. Her purpose was to penetrate, to ingratiate herself. She walked beside him slowly, pausing to look at pictures which he thought might interest her. She lost count of the great-aunts and uncles, and cousins, the relatives by marriage who adorned the walls of the gallery.

He looked at his watch. Carrier, with an elegant crocodile strap. There might be some poor Italian aristocrats but the Duke di Malaspiga wasn't one of them. ‘It's past six—we must go downstairs and have a drink with my mother. Fortunately John is very good with her. He keeps her entertained, otherwise she gets very bored.'

‘He's nice,' Katharine said. ‘He seems very fond of you all.'

‘It's entirely natural. Besides which, he has a great talent. I hope the ancestors haven't bored you?'

‘Of course not—it was terribly interesting for me. Thank you.'

‘Please,' he said, leading her back towards the salon, ‘call me Alessandro. If I may call you Katharine. Miss Dexter is ridiculously formal between cousins.'

The salon was full of subdued lights; the smell of the tapestries was mingled with a different, sweeter smell. As well as electric light, candles were burning on the big centre table, and she realized that the wax was scented. The tea table was shining with crystal glasses and decanters. One servant, instead of two, was offering drinks. The Duchess di Malaspiga had gone; only the old lady and the Canadian remained. They were sitting close together and laughing. Both looked up as they approached. There were two little spots of red on the old Duchess's cheeks and her eyes sparkled. She looked so young in the deceptive light that Katharine was startled. Her glance at her son was mischievous.

‘There you both are,' she said. ‘What a long time you kept Miss Dexter, Sandro. She must be sick of her ancestors by now! Come and have a cocktail, my dear child. My son is so selfish, keeping you away from me …' The laugh was a bright trill, with a sweet note of malice in it. Katharine sat near her on the other side of John Driver. She laid a hand as dried and thin as old paper on top of hers. On the little finger she wore a crested ring which was the twin of the one Katharine had in her hotel room, and had forgotten to wear.

‘Have something to drink,' she invited. ‘John will make you a wonderful Old Fashioned; he taught Bernardo to do it, but he can't get it quite right. Or would you prefer champagne?'

‘Just whisky, please,' Katharine said. She could feel Alessandro watching her; the amused glances of his mother were making her uneasy.

‘And another of those delicious cocktails for me,' the old lady demanded. She took the glass and sipped it greedily. ‘When you get old,' she said to Katharine, ‘life has few compensations. One lives for something as simple as an Old Fashioned! When I was young I only drank wine—spirits were not suitable for women. Now wine disagrees with me. Old age is a sad thing, my dear. Enjoy your youth; you don't know how precious it is.'

‘Come now,' John Driver said gently. ‘You're as old as you feel, Duchess. And you look like a girl tonight, doesn't she, Sandro?'

‘You have the secret of eternal youth, Mother,' he said. ‘Our cousin is going to think we don't look after you, if you talk like that. No more cocktails tonight; you're becoming sad.'

It was said with gentleness, but the old lady put her glass down. It seemed she understood her son.

‘I must change my dress for dinner,' she announced. The beautiful, painted face turned to Katharine, and the smile showed the same superficial friendliness.

‘You must visit us again, my dear,' she said.

It was a dismissal, and Katharine got up immediately. The Duke and John Driver came to the entrance hall with her.

‘I'll take Miss Dexter back to her hotel,' John Driver said. ‘My car's outside.'

Alessandro bowed over her hand. This time his lips brushed the back of it.

‘Would you like to come tomorrow and look at the papers?'

‘Yes,' she said quickly, ‘if that's convenient—I'd love to come.'

‘Good,' the Duke said. ‘John will take you home now. I will collect you at one o'clock tomorrow and we will have lunch. Good night.'

As they crossed the Ponte Alla Carraroia, Driver looked at her and grinned.

‘Don't be overpowered,' he said. ‘I felt just the same when I first met Sandro. He sort of takes you over. He doesn't mean anything, it comes naturally to him.'

‘So it seems,' Katharine said. ‘It's just that I'm used to being asked.'

‘Would you have said no, if he had asked you?'

‘I guess not,' she admitted. But not for the reason Driver thought; not because she was overcome by his looks and his charm. Now that she was out of the villa and sitting next to an ordinary human being, she felt that Alessandro di Malaspiga was the most frightening man she had ever met. She felt as if she had come out of a tomb. The smell of the scented candles and the fading tapestries was still with her, cloying and unhealthy. Nothing except her purpose in coming to Florence would have made her see any of them again.

‘Women never say no to him,' Driver said. ‘That's the trouble. He lifts a little finger and they stumble over themselves running.'

‘Well, I hate to tell you, here's one who won't. Anyway, I think you're putting the wrong interpretation on it. I'm a stranger and his cousin; he's just asked me out to lunch.'

‘Oh, sure.' He gave the same friendly grin. ‘But being so pretty helps. He's great company; you'll enjoy your lunch.'

‘I'm sure I will. I didn't mean to be ungrateful; it was very nice of him to ask me.' They shook hands outside the hotel.

‘Maybe you'll lunch with me one day,' he said. ‘I'd like that.'

‘So would I,' Katharine answered. She found that she meant it. There was something real and warm about John Driver. A great talent, Alessandro had said. She wondered what it was.

‘What's the matter with Frank? He won't even come out for a beer.' James Nathan had worked with the old Narcotics Bureau before it became assimilated into the Federal Bureau. He was a veteran of fifteen years, small and tough, with a reputation for getting rough with suspects. His methods and his attitudes were disliked by men as progressive as Ben Harper. After a few drinks he was inclined to express his opinion of the softer handling of addicts as typical of the left-wing sell-out which was undermining the American people.

‘Hit 'em,' he would say, slamming a balled fist on the bar. ‘And hit 'em hard. It's all they understand.' But a lot of people liked Jim Nathan; everyone respected his professionalism. He spoke to a younger colleague of Frank Carpenter's.