Daggers and Men's Smiles (25 page)

“Bianchi says the reason is money, the investors.”

“Box office? Think about it, Falla. It doesn't really hold water. You don't have to be an expert to know the big money to be made with this film is in North America, where you can be certain they've never heard of Tibor Stanjo.”

They were now in the courtyard near where most of the trailers were parked. Betty Chesler and her assistant, Eddie Christy, were making their way across the yard chattering away nineteen to the dozen, carrying between them a large box of German helmets. When she saw the two policemen Betty Chesler twisted around to speak to them, leaving most of the weight in the hands of her punier colleague. With a plaintive cry, he staggered and lowered it awkwardly to the ground.

“Sorry, Eddie, love, but I wanted to have a word — I'm so glad I saw you. I was about to call the police station, actually.”

“More trouble at the lodge?” Moretti asked.

“No, thank God. But I wanted to have a word with you.” She looked around her, and at her assistant. “I'd — rather not talk here.”

“Tell you what,” said Liz Falla in her firm, take-control voice, “I'll give you a hand with those, shall I?” She hoisted up one end of the container with impressive ease. Eddie Christy took the other side, and together they walked off in the direction of the terrace.

Betty Chesler waited until they were out of earshot and turned back to Moretti. “It's about Sydney Tremaine. We can talk in Clifford's trailer, I've got a master key. He left this morning.”

Clifford Wesley's trailer was still showing signs of its former occupant and Betty Chesler tut-tutted as they went in. “Dear me, what a pigsty. I do apologize. But he was such a
nice
young man. I just hope stardom doesn't spoil him.”

“You think
Rastrellamento
will make him a star?”

“Oh I think so. I've seen so many get started, and you get to know what to look for. That seriousness and those glasses might make you think otherwise, but on camera he's just gorgeous — oh, he made me cry buckets yesterday when he died. In the film, I mean. The way things have been around here you've got to say that, haven't you?” Betty Chesler gave a little shudder.

“You wanted to talk to me about Ms. Tremaine.”

“Yes.” Betty Chesler sat down and Moretti took a seat opposite her. With great earnestness she leaned forward and patted his knee. “Now, dear, I know you're a police officer — well, a detective — but I'm going to be quite straightforward.”

Nonplussed, Moretti replied, “I hope you will, Ms. Chesler. It'll make a pleasant change.”

“Very well. I know from what Sydney has said that she's taken a shine to you.”

“A — shine?” Moretti stared at Betty Chesler's solemn face.

“You've been so kind to her. She's not used to the man in her life being kind to her.” She was now giving him a stern but motherly look.

“Now, Ms. Chesler — I don't know what Ms. Tremaine has said to you, but I am far from being the man in her life,” responded a now dismayed Moretti.

“She told me you're a real gentleman — even gave up your bed to her, and never laid a finger on her. She's not used to that. Don't worry — Sydney and I have known each other a long time, from the Pavlova film. She's not told anyone else, with one possible exception, and that's what I wanted to talk to you about. Or who, rather.”

“Giulia Vannoni.”

“You know! Oh, I'm so worried about her friendship with that woman! Sydney can be so naive about life — dancers are often like that. They live in a cocoon, you see, from about the age of ten, and they go from barre to the ballet to bed at night and that's it. Sydney seems to have complete confidence in her, and in my opinion she's just as likely to have been the culprit as anyone. Those muscles! Have you seen the key Sydney's wearing around her neck?”

“I have. Is it the key to the tower on Icart point?”

“If you mean what she calls Giulia Vannoni's castello, yes. She says it's where she'll be safe and I'm to tell no one. It could be a trap. It could mean her death!”

Betty Chesler's emotional style was reminiscent of early silent films, all clasped hands and tortured looks, but her anxiety was clearly genuine.

“Has Ms. Tremaine told you anything about their conversations? Anything at all that might be useful to our inquiries?”

“I don't know if it's useful or not, but she told me that Giulia thinks the murders have something to do with some old family secret. It all sounded highly unlikely to me.”

“Was she more specific about the secret?”

“Something to do with how she was close to the marchesa, but how just once she had been frightened of her. She asked the marchesa about a sister of her grandfather's she found out about, and the marchesa threatened to throw her out of the business, so she said. It all seemed a bit farfetched to me — to think that it would have anything to do with the murders. That woman can turn nasty at the drop of a hat. I've seen it.”

“A sister,” said Moretti. “She didn't by any chance give her a name, this sister?”

“Yes, she did, and I remember it because of that old folk song.” Betty Chesler broke suddenly and unexpectedly into song in a melodious voice, heavy with vibrato. “
Who is Sylvia? What is she, that all our swains commend her?
” She beamed at Moretti. “Not bad, eh? I used to sing with a dance band when I was young. Best days of my life, they were.”

“So,” Moretti confirmed, “the name was Sylvia?”

“I'm sure of it. My main concern is for Sydney's safety, so I've no scruples whatsoever about sharing her confidences with you.”

“You saw her this morning?”

“Yes, at the hotel. She said she was coming here.”

“Did she? She told me she never wanted to come near this place again.”

“I could understand that, but she wanted to have something to do, and I said she could help me.
De mortuis
and all that, Detective Inspector, but she's better off without Gilbert Ensor. I've been talking to her about getting on with her life.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Anything more? I've got to find Monty Lord, if I can.”

“That's about it. Monty's in the manor, because they're shooting on the terrace today. You should be able to catch him when they break for lunch.”

Together they walked back to the lodge, where Liz Falla was waiting for him. Moretti watched Betty Chesler disappear up the steps and into the lodge, closing the door behind her.

“Anything useful, Guv?”

“I think so, but I'll tell you later. I don't want to talk about it here. Let's go back to the manor. We'll wait for Mr. Lord in the foyer.”

Somehow, the end of summer seemed more palpable in the Manoir Ste. Madeleine. The air was cooler, almost damp, and the once light-filled interior was now shadowed and dim. The entrance hall was deserted, and Moretti and Liz Falla were just sitting down on a pair of high-backed mahogany chairs when Bella Alfieri came down the stairs. She was wearing the same severe suit, and her swept-up hairstyle gave her a retro fifties look.

“Can I help you?”

“Perhaps you can, Signora,” said Moretti. “We are waiting to speak to Mr. Lord. Is he on the set? We understood they were shooting here today.”

“They are, but Signor Lord has left the set now. He is doing some paperwork in his bedroom upstairs. He didn't return to the trailer, because they all break soon for lunch.”

“Could you show us the way?”

Bella Alfieri looked doubtful. “We are not supposed to disturb him, Detective Inspector.”

“Signora Alfieri, this is a murder investigation.”

“This way.”

With an alacrity that took both officers by surprise, Bella Alfieri turned and made her way back up the stairs into a second floor hallway that overlooked the ground floor. Monty Lord's room was right at the top of the stairs. Bella Alfieri knocked and an irritated voice replied, “
Chi è
?” The tiny interpreter turned to them, and smiled, lovingly.

“He speaks beautiful Italian, you know. Not a trace of an accent. And, by the way, it's ‘signorina,' and not ‘signora.'” She called through the door. “Monty, it's Bella. The two detectives are here to speak with you.”

From inside the room came the sound of papers rustling and drawers and cupboards opening and closing. Then Monty Lord called out, “Come in, come in.”

The producer's bedroom was sizeable, with plenty of space for an elaborately carved desk that was either Renaissance, or a very fine copy of a Renaissance piece. No utilitarian steel and aluminum construction for this piece of furniture, unlike the desk in his trailer, and Moretti was again struck by the marked difference between the servant quarters and the rest of the manor.

The producer was in his customary black, his shaved pate glowing white in contrast. He was standing up, a sheaf of papers in his hand, all smiles, his irritation apparently over.

“Please forgive my churlish greeting, officers, but we are under the gun — an unfortunate choice of metaphor in the circumstances, I grant you, but that's how we all feel.” He turned to Bella Alfieri, who threw him a glance of undisguised adoration. “Bella, sweetie, could you tell the marchesa I may be a little late for lunch, and not to wait for me?”

Bella sweetie's expression now became a complex blend of adoration, eagerness, and unvarnished loathing. “Of course, Monty.”

Monty Lord blew her a kiss and she blushed and giggled like a young girl as she closed the door behind her.

“Sit down, officers. How is the investigation going?”

“Slowly would be a polite way of putting it, Mr. Lord,” said Moretti. “I wanted to ask you a couple of additional questions — about matters that have arisen since the murder of Mr. Albarosa. First of all — has there been a disagreement of any sort, a cooling-off between yourself and the marchesa? I am told there has.”

Rather than being offended or disturbed by the question, Monty Lord looked saddened. “Ah, Detective Inspector, there has, there has. I blame myself entirely, and I'll be honest with you. After the agreement with Paolo, I had to win Donatella over, and I think I overstepped the mark. I think — how can I say this without sounding conceited? — she became too fond of me. I am reaping my own whirlwind, and I can only hope we can remain civil with each other until the filming is over.”

“So you are saying the marchesa expected more of you romantically and personally than you could give her?”

“Delicately put, if I may say so. Yes.”

Remembering the hopeless devotion on the face of Bella Alfieri, Moretti modified somewhat his first impression of Monty Lord as a decent fellow.

“I see. So the disagreement between you has nothing to do with the changes to the script and to the storyline of
Rastrellamento
?”

“Good God, no!” Monty Lord looked taken aback at the idea. “I doubt we've exchanged more than a couple of sentences about the contents of
Rastrellamento
, and that would be mostly about the hold-ups in the shooting schedule. But there is a compensatory clause in the contract: we will have to pay the Vannonis more money if we do not adhere to the original plan, so they are not as bothered as we are.”

“I see. As you probably know, we had a meeting with Mario Bianchi and his lawyer a short while ago.”

“Yes. I've already spoken to him.”

“Did he tell you anything about the nature of the interview?”

“Some. I gather you were more interested in his father than in his drug problem.”

Monty Lord got up from behind his desk and walked over to one of the windows that overlooked the terrace. He pulled it open, and a breath of cool air blew in from outside. “See? Time is passing, we're way behind, and the weather could break at any moment. They tell me it can storm like crazy in the fall here.” He turned back to them and asked, “What is all this, Detective Inspector? Why are you examining the past for an answer? Toni was utterly charming and a shit; Gil was hugely talented and a shit. Both fooled about, and it cost them their lives.”

“That's interesting, sir,” Moretti observed. “When I suggested at the onset of this investigation that philandering might be the answer, you felt it unlikely, given the nature of film sets, film actors, and film crews. Have you changed your mind? And, if so, why?”

Without warning, Monty Lord slammed his hand down hard on a small round table near him. The slap echoed through the room, like a warning shot from a starter's pistol.

“Christ almighty, guys! I've changed my mind because I have to believe that none of this has anything to do with Mario, or his past — or his present, come to that. I have to believe the changes he's making are based on sound artistic judgment. I have to hope we can keep him going until we call this a wrap. And I must tell you that the one good thing about Gil's death is I no longer have to play monkey in the middle between the two of them — and if that makes me a prime suspect, so be it!”