The Malaspiga Exit (8 page)

‘How do you feel about your cousins now? Still guilty about deceiving them? If you have any doubts left now, about yourself or anything else'—his voice was pitched low, but full of emphasis—‘then you'd better go back to the States tomorrow.'

Katharine opened the bag, and put the handkerchief away. She drew on the cigarette he had given her, and then as suddenly stubbed it out. She looked at him.

‘You've played your ace,' she said. ‘You know the answer. I blamed myself and I blamed my brother. I thought he'd just given in again. Now at least I know he tried. What you've just told me makes my cousin Malaspiga his murderer.'

‘As surely as if he shot him dead,' Raphael said. ‘Policies like that are made at the top. Would you like to tell me what you've found out?'

‘I went to tea with them,' she said. ‘The old Duchess, my cousin, his wife and a Canadian, a sculptor, who lives with them. The Duke is his patron.'

‘Yes, we know about him. He came over from Toronto about four years ago. His background is routine, farming family, no money, artistic talent. It would amuse those sort of people to have him around. They love to imitate their ancestors.'

‘My cousin took me out to lunch today,' she said. She felt sick and shaken but in command of herself. He had given her a brutal shock, and at the same time she felt curiously relieved. Peter had tried. The tragedy at the end was not because of his weakness. There was a cold sensation inside her and it was spreading as she talked.

‘He told me a lot about himself,' she said. ‘He loves talking about the family and he feels I'm interested. I discovered a lot.'

Raphael interrupted her. ‘You're looking very pale,' he said. ‘Are you feeling all right? Shall I get you a drink …?'

‘No, nothing. I'm fine. Just let me go on talking; I don't want to forget anything important.'

‘What did you find out?'

‘The Duke said they were poor after the war; he said he'd financed an antique business with his wife's money and was making a great success of it. It certainly seemed as if they'd plenty of money. The villa was full of lovely things, there were servants all over the place, and he had all those little extras that go with the rich. Hand-made cigarettes, Cartier watch and cigarette case—that kind of thing. I'd say there was a great deal of money there.'

‘If our suspicions are correct,' Raphael said gently, ‘he must be a multi-millionaire. Which is what they were before the war. Like all the top Fascists they were only interested in protecting their money against Communism. Do you mind if I smoke? That cigarette I gave you seemed to upset you.'

Katharine shook her head, and he lit a cheap cigarette and sucked at it.

‘So, there is evidence of a considerable fortune. That's very interesting. The antiques couldn't account for all of it, but at any rate they're a good cover. What else?'

‘He has an antique shop in New York,' Katharine said. ‘It's called Florence Antiques, 1143 Park Avenue, and the name of the man who runs it is Taylor. E. Taylor. I saw it in his address book this afternoon. I was alone in the library looking at some family papers and I found it when I searched his desk.'

‘Aah,' Raphael whistled. ‘That could be very interesting.'

‘There were other antique shops in the book—all over Europe and one in Beirut. A mass of personal entries, but mostly princes and counts. I set a bug and a recorder in the library and I'll be going back again in a day or so, and I can get it.'

‘You've been very enterprising for someone who's so new,' he said. ‘Congratulations.'

‘But perhaps the most important thing I discovered was that both the Duke and his wife went to America about seven years ago. They stayed in Hollywood with a film star called John Julius. Can you remember all this?'

‘No,' he said. ‘But I don't have to; I have a recorder in my pocket which is taking down everything you say. That way, there won't be any mistakes.'

‘Will you pass this on to New York as soon as you can? They can investigate the antique shop and this film star. Some of those Hollywood people are pretty degenerate. There could be a drug connection there.'

‘There could,' he said. ‘But my guess is that the antique shop will turn out to be the most important. It's the most wonderful cover for smuggling. Think of it—think how much heroin could be hidden in one piece of furniture!'

‘My God,' Katharine whispered. ‘Of course. I didn't think of that.'

‘Cars are the usual means of transporting large quantities. It's impossible to check on everyone who travels with a car. I ran a check on one of Malaspiga's exports to Paris, but we found nothing.'

‘Did they know?'

‘No. It was done in the Customs. I had an expert go over the pieces, looking for false drawers, bottoms, hollow handles. We found nothing. It seemed a dead end. My opinion is that they don't send it with every shipment. The last was three months ago.'

‘Then you think the next one …'

‘It could be. How friendly
are
you with your cousin?'

‘He seems to like me,' Katharine said. She shivered, in spite of the heat in the café. She still felt cold, as if she had been chilled. Hate should be fiery, it should burn.… If she shut her eyes she would see Peter lying dead in the hospital room, and the nurse taking her by the arm, brisk and callous through over-exposure to such cases. ‘Too late, I'm afraid, he's gone.'

‘That's understandable,' Raphael said. ‘You're very pretty. He has a reputation for women. Can you take advantage of this?'

‘No!' She said it sharply. ‘After what you've told me, how could you suggest …?'

He raised his hand. ‘I didn't suggest anything,' he said. ‘Just that you encourage his friendship, get as close to him and the family as you can. You can't afford scruples. If he's attracted to you, and obviously he is—then this could encourage him to talk. Italian men always talk to women, unless they happen to be married to them. I have a girl friend in Lucca and I tell her everything.' He smiled at Katharine. His expression was mild and friendly again. He had a schizoid attitude which she found disconcerting. His revelation of how her brother died had been merciless. As if he knew her thoughts, he said quietly, ‘Forgive me for being brutal with you. But you needed the shock. I didn't enjoy giving it. We are both working for the same ends. Try to forgive me.'

‘Of course,' she said. ‘You did the right thing. I'm very grateful. Nothing would shake me now. I'll keep my head, don't worry.'

‘I'm sure you will,' he said. ‘Now your real job is to find out when the next consignment of antiques is leaving for the States, but go to the villa as often as possible. Make a note of anyone who visits there, especially foreign contacts.'

‘I think I can do that,' Katharine said. ‘But it may take time.'

‘Not too long,' he said. ‘That shipment will be on its way. If not to America, then to one of the other places. I want to know when and where it's going.'

‘I'll do my best,' she said. ‘There's something I'd like to ask you …'

‘Yes?'

‘How far did Firelli get?'

He took a thousand-lire note out of a shabby wallet and folded it in the bill.

‘We'll never know,' he said. ‘His last telephone call didn't make sense; the line was so bad that only a word here and there came through. He wasn't alone, that was obvious. And whatever he was trying to tell us had to be disguised. Angelo; that was the only clue. It didn't connect with anything. There is nobody with that name among the Malaspiga's family or their staff. But it meant something to Firelli. He knew he'd never make another call and he was trying to get it through to us. He was a very brave man. I liked him.'

‘And he was never heard of again—it seems incredible. Why didn't the police investigate?'

‘They did,' Raphael said. ‘He was using a firm of antique exporters as a cover. The Duke said he left after a business interview, his hotel received a telephone call asking them to pack his luggage, which was collected by a taxi, and after that there wasn't a trace. The caller said he was Firelli and flying back to the States.'

‘It's horrible,' she said slowly. ‘It's worse than knowing for certain he's dead.'

‘Oh, there's no doubt about that,' Raphael said. ‘They murdered him because he was on to something. Firelli's dead, but we will never find him. Take my advice. Don't be afraid to be afraid. Fear breeds caution, and you need to be very cautious dealing with your family. Don't imagine that a blood-tie would protect you. Be very careful.' Frank Carpenter had said the same.

‘I will,' she said. He got up and they squeezed out between the tables.

‘I think you should leave first,' he said. ‘I will pay the bill. I look forward to your next report and I will pass on this information to New York. You've done very well.'

They shook hands briefly, and Katharine went outside on to the piazza. It was dusk, a warm, humid evening; crowds of people were crossing the piazza, breaking up into groups, to linger and look. The Florentines were setting out for the bars and cafés before going home. Everywhere the shops were open, lights blazing. The scene had a medieval quality, with the great Cathedral and the Baptistry brooding over the scurrying people. High above her, a bell began to toll; a flock of pigeons rose whirring in alarm and then as quickly settled. Bells began to ring in different parts of the city. The sound was indescribably sad and beautiful. A pair of sharply dressed Italian men paused as they came by her; one of them half turned back, a smile of invitation on his face. Katharine turned quickly before he had time to accost her, and walked towards the Via Vecchio. In the main street she waited a few minutes on the pavement until she found an empty taxi to take her back to the hotel.

Be very careful, the little policeman had said. A blood-tie won't protect you. Her handsome cousin, with his princely bearing and his charm, would kill her as pitilessly as he had killed Firelli. As those who worked for him had killed her brother.

She went upstairs to her bedroom; she didn't want to eat anything. She felt sick and weary. There was a huge parcel wrapped in cellophane and tied with a pink ribbon in her room. There was a card pinned to the front. She saw the familiar crest in red on the envelope and her heart jumped a beat. She opened it first.

‘Thank you for lunching with me. I'm sorry I was delayed and didn't see you. Until tomorrow. Alessandro.'

Under the cellophane there was a gilded wicker basket full of flowers. Pale pink flowers, heavily scented. The same out-of-season roses as his mother wore.

CHAPTER THREE

Frank Carpenter flew down to Hollywood on a Thursday; his telephone call to John Julius resulted in a lunchtime appointment, made by a secretary. For someone who hadn't appeared in a major film for ten years, the actor seemed to live in style. It was a day of travel-poster sunshine; the smog cloud had lifted and everything sparkled in the heat. Carpenter took a cab out to the Julius house on Beverly Hills. He knew California well and had never liked it. He deemed himself a city man, but the artificiality of the pleasure grounds offended him. When he was in the country he liked it to be raw. He had several times taken a hunting trip to Vermont, living in a cabin with two other men. His wife had suspected him of being with a woman. Nothing could have been further from Carpenter's idea of relaxation than taking his sex life into the hills to shoot deer. Hollywood held no magic for him; it reminded him of a cardboard city, built to delude the eye, like the streets and houses on a film set. A plastic place inhabited by plastic beings, pretending to be human. The air in the Hills was cooler; in spite of the busloads of sightseers crawling past the houses of the stars, there was elegance and space, handsome trees and beautifully laid-out avenues. He turned left off Sunset and up a long drive lined with Queen Palms. At the end of it they came to the typical ranch-style mansion, white stuccoed and green roofed, set in a perimeter of flowering shrubs. A Hawaiian butler appeared at the entrance. He was built like a prizefighter. It reminded Carpenter of the opening shot of an indifferent thriller movie.

‘Mr. Julius is expecting you.' In contrast to his appearance the butler had a friendly voice and a pleasant smile. Carpenter went with him inside.

It was cool and green, the rooms open plan, a vast reception area leading off the hall. One wall was constructed of multi-coloured glass, which gave a weird kaleidoscopic effect, alarming and yet beautiful. Sofas the size of ocean liners, single pieces of modern sculpture in aluminium and stone, a room full of soft furniture and hard surfaces, dominated by an erotic mural over the open fireplace.

‘Sit down, please, sir. Mr. Julius will be right with you. Can I get you a drink?' Carpenter looked into the smooth dark face.

‘A beer,' he said. ‘Thank you.'

He recognized the face as soon as the actor came into the room. Handsome, with grey hair, blue eyes, a well-preserved body in expensive casual clothes, a young man's walk. He shook hands firmly, gave a professional smile and sat opposite.

‘What can I do for you?' he said. The appointment had been made under the guise of an interview with a well-known film magazine. Carpenter took out his identity badge and passed it across. John Julius looked at it, and for a moment the Great Movie Star smile slipped sideways.

‘What the hell is this? I thought you came for an interview!'

‘In a way I have.' Carpenter was used to honest citizens getting annoyed and even more used to the dishonest showing indignation. ‘I want to ask you some questions, Mr. Julius.'

‘Couldn't you have said so in the first place, instead of making up a lot of lies about
Fan Fair Magazine
!'