Daggers and Men's Smiles (32 page)

Liz Falla shut and fastened the window, but she left the chair as it was. She made a brief inspection of the second bedroom and the bathroom, then went downstairs. She checked the kitchen, made sure the back door was securely fastened, returned to the living room and retrieved Sydney Tremaine's bag. She put the stick back in the stand, then took it out again.

The moments between relocking the front door and getting back inside the car seemed interminable. As she flung the bag in the door of the car she thought she saw something, a dark shape on the top of the wall against the moonlit sky.

“You saw it, right?”

Sydney Tremaine was shaking. She grabbed hold of Liz Falla's jacket.

“A cat. Could be a cat.”

“Too fucking big for a cat. Oh, God. Start the engine.”

Liz was only too happy to do as she was told.

“Did you leave a window open in one of the bedrooms?”

“You kidding? I had everything sealed up tight as a drum. Which bedroom?”

“The one on the left at the top of the stairs.”

“That's where I was. Oh, God. Take me to a hotel, take me to your police cells — take me anywhere.”

“Okay.”

“And that, Guv, is how Sydney Tremaine ended up sleeping on my sofa bed,” said Liz Falla as they turned into the courtyard on Hospital Lane.

Luck was again in Moretti's corner. DS Hathaway, the officer left in charge in Hanley's absence, was in a meeting, and had left a message for Moretti to report to him as soon as possible. Ensconced in his office, Moretti and Liz Falla went over the details of the tragedy in San Jacopo. Liz Falla cupped her hands around her pointed chin, and looked thoughtfully at Moretti across the desk.

“So what you're saying, Guv, is that the baby survived, and was farmed out or adopted, found out the truth, and is now seeking revenge. The dagger was to let the Vannonis know that all this was about Sylvia and the scandal. But why kill Toni Albarosa? He wasn't a Vannoni, and neither was Mr. Ensor.”

“I think the killer's hand was forced,” said Moretti. “I don't think those murders were planned, but had to be carried out because the avenger's real, long-term, long-planned design would have been thwarted by the actions of Albarosa and Ensor. In Albarosa's case it is still possible he or she was on their way to kill another member of the household when they ran across Toni Albarosa on the terrace.”

“What was the long-term plan, do you think, Guv? Was the avenger, as you call the person, going to wipe out the whole family, or what?”

“I think the making and completion of
Rastrellamento
was a crucial part of the revenge. Therefore, Mario Bianchi's cooperation was essential. I'm not saying he knew the reason, but someone fed him the ideas and he went along with it. I also feel the ultimate gesture would have been the death of at least one principal member of the family: the marchese or the marchesa, or both of them.”

“Shouldn't we be giving them a more specific warning, then?”

“About what? About a scandal they deny ever happened? To a woman they deny ever existed? You can be sure that Gianfranco is not going to tell anyone he spilt his guts to me. Even his adoring
mamma
would no longer protect him from the wrath of the marchese.”

“Okay. So let's say we know why. Do we know who?”

“I think so. There are some problems, but it seems certain now there are two people involved.”

“The woman who picked up the knives, you mean.”

“Yes, and there's something else I've been thinking about ever since Ensor was murdered. Remember what you said?”

“
Cherchez la femme,
you mean, Guv?”

“Right. So who was the woman? See, Falla, it had to be a woman who got him down there. Ensor didn't have email at the hotel, and he had no office here. Don't tell me it was by letter, so it had to be by phone. Let's take a look at the statements again.”

“Which ones, Guv? The officers went through them with a fine-tooth comb.”

“I'm sure they did. Sydney Tremaine, Giulia Vannoni, Monty Lord, Mario Bianchi, and Adriana Ferrini.”

“Adriana Ferrini?”

“She's about the right age, and I believe her mother was unmarried, so we'll include her.”

About an hour later, Liz Falla said, “Okay, these three —” pointing at the statements taken from Giulia Vannoni, Mario Bianchi and Adriana Ferrini, “— have no good alibi for any of the three incidents. Sydney Tremaine has an alibi for the Albarosa murder, her husband, but he's dead. Isn't Giulia Vannoni too young to be the baby?”

“She is, but her mother and unknown father would have been the right age. We haven't checked out the story of her parentage. And she has a motorbike — whoever was prowling outside the manor about a month ago, and whoever was at the ruined villa, had a motorbike.”

“Monty Lord couldn't have got back from Rome in time for the first murder, could he?”

“Couldn't he? He's an expert pilot and flies solo. Did you check his arrival at the airport?”

“Yes. They have him clearing customs at just after nine a.m.”

“They do? I've been rethinking his alibi since you mentioned the airport jacket.”

“I wondered about that, because the tower has no record of giving him clearance to land. But it was a busy morning, apparently, and they were snowed under with private and corporate planes coming in for some sort of a conference. Still — he's an American,” said Liz Falla.

“Why not Italian-American?” Moretti suggested. “There are thousands — millions — of them. He's the right age, and he's the person most likely to have fed the new script ideas to Mario Bianchi.”

“You're not saying Ensor's wife helped Monty Lord, are you, Guv? He was a shit to her, but I don't believe that for a moment.”

“Ah, but there is another woman close to him, a woman who would do anything for him. Her alibi may be watertight, but she wasn't the one committing murder.”

“Bella Alfieri. Ensor would never have gone into a bunker for her, Guv. Oh, I know, she'd have used the telephone, but he'd have known her voice, wouldn't he? It's sort of squeaky, as I recall. And besides — an Italian with a name like Monty Lord?”

“Many people in show business change their names,” Moretti reminded her. “We don't know if it's his real name. I know who might know: Sydney Tremaine.” He leaned across the desk and picked up the phone. “What's your number, Falla?”

He waited as the answering machine picked up and started to speak.

“Sydney? It's Ed Moretti.”

Across the desk Liz Falla was giving him one of her looks.

“Ed!” He had forgotten how pretty her voice was. “Where are you?”

“At police headquarters.”

“You heard what happened?”

“Yes. I have something to ask you about Monty Lord. Did you and your husband spend any time with him when you were discussing
Rastrellamento
?”

“We did. Many drunken luncheons and dinners. Why?”

“Did he tell you much about himself?”

“Quite a bit —
in vino veritas
, honey. What did you want to know?”

“Did he ever tell you whether he had changed his name?”

“Never mentioned it. As far as I know, that's his real name.”

“I see.” Moretti felt disappointment tamping down the euphoria of hearing her voice.

“But it's an amazing success story. He was a stuntman, you know.”

The rush of excitement Moretti was now feeling had nothing to do with Sydney Tremaine's sweet tones.

“No, I didn't. A stuntman?”

“Few people know. Many actors move into producing and directing, but Monty came up the hard way. He said stuntmen get little respect, so he doesn't mention the past too much. He was pretty drunk when he told us about his time in Italy before he started producing spaghetti westerns. Some of the tricks he performed would make your blood curdle!”

“Such as?”

“Oh, you know, jumping off tall buildings and through fire, that kind of thing. But he had two specialities. One was bike-riding. Like Evel Knievel — if you wanted anything extraordinary done that involved a motorbike he was your man.”

“And the other specialty?”

“Climbing. He had absolutely no fear of heights, and he could climb up a skyscraper or the side of a mountain. They used to call him
Il Ragno
— the Spider.”

“And his assistant, Bella Alfieri — what about her? Was she around in those days?”

“Yes. Bella was in show business and she had a specialty of her own. She did the voices for many of the characters in Italian cartoons. They met in Rome, I believe. Monty always says he doesn't know where he'd be without Bella, and she's devoted to him.”

“I'm sure that's true. One more question: did your husband carry a phone?”

“Why yes, he did — odd for a guy who was a technodinosaur. He got over that where the cellphone was concerned, because it meant he could bug Mario and Monty. It drove them nuts.”

“I can imagine.”

Moretti said goodbye and put down the phone. His head was spinning from lack of sleep and the elation of having the last pieces of the puzzle put in place by the woman who, only a short time before, he thought might be a piece of the puzzle herself.

September 22nd

The wind was gathering strength by the time Moretti and Liz Falla got out to the Manoir Ste. Madeleine, and Moretti was grateful for the showers and chill that lifted the drowsiness assailing him after he and Liz Falla snatched something to eat. It had already been a very long day.

Liz Falla pulled in alongside a battered-looking 1940s staff car with bullet holes in the doors, and attracted the attention of a security guard who was chatting with one of the extras, disconcertingly dressed in blood-drenched overalls.

“We need to get in the back entrance,” said Moretti, showing his identification.

“The front is open. They are shooting in the main salon today. I am instructed to —”

“And I am now instructing you to let us in the back,” said Moretti. The security guard shrugged his shoulders, went over to the back entrance they had used before, and let them in.

“What's the plan, Guv, if we see Mr. Lord first?” Liz Falla sounded nervous.

“Tell him we've come to see Mr. Bianchi — which we have — but we make it appear we are taking him in again for questioning. Hopefully Monty Lord is in his office, and hopefully we can pull Bianchi off the set before his producer knows it.”

All was silent backstage at the manor, apart from the drone of a vacuum cleaner somewhere. So connected was the manor now in Moretti's mind with the unreal world of
Rastrellamento
, that it was the reminder of day-to-day living that seemed unreal.

Rastrellamento
: the examination of the past for ancient evils. That was how he had once explained the significance of the title to Liz Falla. How perfectly apt the novel must have seemed to Monty Lord when he read it, the ideal medium for his message. Perhaps he had originally intended to leave the plot as it was, but had been unable to resist the temptation to link it more closely to the past. After all, he had discovered, or known, that his director was an easy target for blackmail. If luck was on their side they would be able to break Mario Bianchi's silence before Monty Lord was aware they were on the premises.

The passage they were in came to an abrupt end at a pair of doors that seemed to have some sort of hectic activity going on beyond them. From the sound of the voices, speaking in both Italian and English, there were a number of people involved. Liz Falla tried the doors, but they were locked. She knocked vigorously, in an effort to be heard above the noise. Finally, someone responded, calling through the door.

“Who is it? You know you're not supposed to come this way!”

It was the voice of Betty Chesler.

“It's the police. Can you let us through?”

The door was opened by a frazzled Betty Chesler. “Well,” she said on seeing them, “at least it isn't some of those extras playing the fool again. Did security send you the wrong way? Can I help you?”

The room was clearly an ante room to the main salon, and it was full of actors dressed as
contadini
. For a moment, time was suspended, and Moretti saw the villagers of San Jacopo as they must have looked before a tragedy beyond their control or comprehension changed their lives forever.

“Sorry to interrupt. We're on our way through to see Mr. Bianchi, Ms. Chesler. He's on the set in the drawing-room?”

“That's right. He'll be all of a tizzy today, I warn you. This is a very upsetting scene, and Mario always tends to identify with the actors — and besides, there have been some late changes again.”

“This is an upsetting scene, you say.”

“Yes. Maddalena — that's the daughter in the film — kills herself. Vittoria's doing a lovely job, I must say, and as for Adriana, she's fabulous, as you'd expect. I just saw the rehearsal and when she stands there, looking at her dead daughter, you can see it all!” Betty Chesler clasped her hands in front of her in her now-familiar, overcome-with-emotion gesture.

“And what can you see? What does the director want her to convey?”

“Love and hate,” said Betty Chesler, simply. “Both love and hate. That's what I saw when I watched Adriana's face, Inspector.” She pointed to a door to one side of the room. “That will take you out into the area behind the set and the lights. You can wait for Mario there.”

On the other side of the door, Moretti and Liz Falla found themselves suddenly in darkness. Ahead of them bathed in brilliant light, were Adriana Ferrini and Vittoria Salviati. The young actress was lying on a couch, as if asleep, with Adriana Ferrini standing over her. Just in front of them, silhouetted against the light, Moretti could see the head of Mario Bianchi with its distinctive ponytail. There was complete silence in the room, and the cameras were moving around the two women. There was no sign of Monty Lord.

“Aaaah — !”

The silence was broken by Adriana Ferrini's savage cry of grief, the sound thundering from her with an operatic resonance.

“No man is worth it, Maddalena — don't you understand? No man!” The actress crossed the set, the cameras tracking after her. “Die for your country's honour, die for your family honour — but oh, my daughter — never,
cara figlia
, die for love.”

“Cut! Print!”

The applause was more than the usual pro forma smatter of sound heard around the set of
Rastrellamento
. There were whoops and shouts of “
brava
!” and some members of the crew were hugging each other.

“Well, it's a wrap, certainly for the interior scenes.”

It was Eddie Christie who spoke, standing next to them in the darkness.

“A wrap?” Moretti asked. “You mean the film is virtually finished? I thought a new character was added.”

“Apparently Mario is rethinking the schoolteacher,” Eddie Christie replied. “We've been told to put any costume plans on hold.”

Liz Falla was almost left behind by Moretti's abrupt departure, and hastened after him as he pushed his way through the laughing, chattering throng toward Mario Bianchi. Unseen and unnoticed by either of them, Bella Alfieri moved from the shadows and slipped out the door through which they had come.

* * *

“Signor Bianchi, is there somewhere we can talk?”

Far from being in a tizzy, Mario Bianchi was looking as calm and collected as Moretti had ever seen him.
Almost serene
, he thought to himself.
Let's hope it's artistic satisfaction at the successful conclusion of the scene and not the effect of some mood-enhancing substance or other.

“Of course. We'll go to my rooms.”

It was said acquiescently, almost as if Bianchi had been expecting them. There was no mention of either lawyers or psychiatrists. Liz Falla shot a surprised look at her partner as they followed the director through the crowd to the main door to the salon — the door through which Moretti and Liz Falla had come on their first meeting with the Vannoni family and Monty Lord.

Mario Bianchi had a bedroom and small sitting room on the second floor overlooking part of the terrace.

“I thought you would want to see me.” The director's smile was that of a man at peace with himself. “You have heard about the removal of the schoolteacher from the script.”

“Not until we arrived today.” Moretti went straight to the point. “I think it was Monty Lord who forced your hand over the changes that so infuriated Gilbert Ensor.”

“Correct.” Mario Bianchi flung himself down on one of the brocaded sofas that proliferated throughout the manor and pulled out a packet of Gauloises. As he lit up, he continued talking.

“This morning I did something I should have done long ago. I told Monty to take his schoolteacher and shove him up his ass.” He smiled beatifically at the two policemen. “I feel like a new man.”

“What brought this about? Surely whatever hold he had over you did not disappear? I presume he was blackmailing you in some way?” Moretti asked.

“Yes. Just over two years ago I — well, I went back on drugs and I was caught. At the time my wife was out of the country in Switzerland, about to give birth to our son in a clinic there — she was having a difficult pregnancy — and I managed to keep it from her. I spent only a short time in jail in return for naming my supplier, a major dealer whom the police had been after for a while. The few people who were in the know made it difficult for me to get a new project — my supplier was also their supplier, so not only did their source dry up, but they were scared shitless he would name names. He didn't, served his sentence, and is now back in business again. Monty found out — he has all kinds of contacts in Italy — but he still came to me with
Rastrellamento.
At first it seemed like a gift, because there was no mention of changes. All that started once we were underway, and when I objected, he told me I was in no position to make trouble, unless I wanted my wife to find out.”

Mario Bianchi took a last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out on a cut-glass ashtray the size of a dinner plate. “I don't know if either of you are married, but I can't imagine life without my wife and son. We broke up once, just after we met, because I was taking cocaine and she found out, and when she came back to me, she told me, no more chances. But during this last week, when Monty made this final addition, I knew I couldn't go on.
Rastrellamento
is my chance to make it back to the top of the heap, and I just couldn't go on compromising my artistic integrity. So I risked everything and phoned my wife.”

“How did she take it?” Liz Falla asked.

“Like an angel — an angry one, when she heard about Monty. So, with her blessing, I told him the schoolteacher was out. The strange thing was how calmly he took it.”

“When did this happen?” asked Moretti.

“Only yesterday. I told the crew and I told the marchesa.”

“Why the marchesa?”

“Because she had come to me the day before in distress, asking me why I was making the script changes, and I told her it was Monty. She said he was playing games with her — cruel games, and that
Rastrellamento
was being used to get at her family. For the life of me I couldn't understand how the storyline of the film could affect Donatella, but I let her know as soon as I made my decision about the schoolteacher.”

“Signor Bianchi,” said Moretti, “we believe Monty Lord is responsible for the deaths of Mr. Albarosa and Mr. Ensor. You may be in some danger yourself.”

Mario Bianchi looked dismayed. “Are you sure?” He got up and moved to the window. Around the corner of the building, Moretti could just see part of one of the Skycranes. “Monty was quite zen about the whole thing yesterday, and I cannot see any reason for him to kill anyone, let alone me.”

“There is a reason, believe me,” Moretti assured him. “Is Mr. Lord on the premises at the moment?”

“As far as I know, he's in his trailer — at least, that's where he said he would be. Are you going to arrest him?” Mario Bianchi was now looking his former worried self again, his fingers pulling nervously at his collar. “We need him, and we need Epicure Films Italia. Without him the money dries up, and we're not finished shooting yet.”

“I don't think you need worry about the money, Mr. Bianchi,” said Moretti, as he crossed to the door. “Your chance for a return to the top is quite safe, of that I'm certain. Much of his original plan has gone wrong, so there is nothing Monty Lord wants more at this moment in his life than the completion and the success of
Rastrellamento
.”

Sydney Tremaine put down the phone and stared into space. “You bastard, you manipulated us, didn't you?” she said out loud. Jesus, how could she have forgotten? That was the trouble with booze — there was not only truth in it, but oblivion. How Gil would have hated knowing that his precious
Rastrellamento
had only been a vessel, a vehicle for another man's hatred!

She picked up the phone, dialed. She had no specific plan in mind, but she knew she couldn't go on sitting in Liz Falla's flat, charming as it was, waiting for something to happen. It had felt so good when she walked out on to the terrace and challenged the killer, taking the initiative for the first time in God knew how long. Why she didn't know, but she wanted to avenge the death of a husband she wasn't sure she had ever loved. With Gil her life had been sometimes wonderful, but more often godawful, fights and fur flying followed by expensive peace offerings, all of it fuelled by too much whisky, or wine, or champagne. Or all three. She wasn't even sure it was Monty Lord they were after, but she was damned if she was going to let him get away with it.

The line was ringing.

“Monty Lord.” There was a new sound in the producer's voice, but she was not sure what it signified.

“Monty?” she said, controlling the tremor in her own voice. “You killed Gil, and I am going to make sure that
Rastrellamento
never gets made, never gets distribution. I can do that, and you know I can. And don't think you can get at me to stop me, just like you stopped Gil. You've already tried, I know. But this time I am going to be where no one can get at me, and I am going to wait there until the police have taken you in and charged you. They're on their way, Monty, right now.”