The Malaspiga Exit (14 page)

‘Who are you investigating—me or them?'

‘Them,' he said. ‘And some friends of theirs. The Duke and Duchess of Malaspiga. Italians; they paid a visit to the Juliuses about seven years ago; there was a big Hollywood party given for them. You wrote about it in this column here. Do you remember them?'

She stretched out her good hand and gave him the cigarette end. ‘Put that out for me, will you? They never leave the damned ashtray where I can reach it. Of course I remember them. Newly married, on their honeymoon. Jesus! That was a laugh …'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘Why?' She shot the question at him. ‘Are they in the drug racket?'

‘We believe so,' he said quietly. ‘We believe that there's a big smuggling organization and that the Malaspiga family are tied up with it. Please help us, Miss Harrison. Tell me anything about them you can remember.'

She didn't answer for a moment. She lifted her useless hand by the wrist, and put it higher up on her lap, and she looked at Carpenter while she decided.

‘I've kept my mouth shut for seven years,' she said. ‘It was the only time in my life I suppressed news. I don't think I've ever gotten over it. Year after year I wrote about John Julius and that wife of his, Elise; nice things, crappy bits about how they'd given this to charity or she'd opened some lousy flower show. And all the while I was sitting on dynamite.'

‘Will you tell me about it now?' There was tension in the room; her long association with the film world had given her a sense of theatre. She had a big scene coming up and she was going to play it.

‘Another cigarette,' she said. He gave it to her. She blew out smoke. ‘You want to know about Elise Julius and the Malaspigas? Okay, Mr. Carpenter. I'll tell you.'

Eddi Taylor's apartment was above the Park Avenue shop; it was beautifully decorated and furnished with seventeenth-century French and Spanish pieces. A superb Flemish tapestry hung on one wall, lit by a spotlight. Taylor was the second son of a middle-class family in Cleveland, Ohio, and had graduated in art, which surprised everyone and disappointed his father, who thought it effeminate. He had left home to work in New York with a firm of decorators, where he learned a great deal about antiques and works of art. Doing up rich women's apartments didn't really interest him, but he loved antiques and within two years the decorators were followed by jobs with several antique shops, always graduating higher in the scale. He hadn't married, but he was not homosexual. His big chance had come in Beverly Hills when he had saved enough to start in business for himself. It was a big chance in more ways than one.

He held a drink in his hand, and it was trembling. He was facing Jim Nathan.

‘You're getting nowhere,' he said to Nathan. ‘You say you've taken the heat off me—how do I know that? And what about this agent they're planting? What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Nathan's face was pale; he lost colour when he was angry.

‘I'm doing all I can,' he snarled back at him. ‘I've given you a clean bill and they won't bother looking into you any more. And I'll get the agent's name—I've told you, it takes time!'

‘Well, time is what we haven't got,' Taylor said. ‘I've got goods coming in—while they're sniffing around me I daren't touch them! You've got to get me the details of this agent—if they penetrate the other end, we're in real trouble. I told them we could rely on you—I told Svenson we'd have the details before he left, but what have you given me—nothing!'

‘I'll get it,' Nathan said. ‘For Christ's sake, I'll get it—stop leaning on me!'

‘We won't lean on you,' Taylor said. He took a swallow of his drink and looked at Nathan. His round face was dull and cruel. ‘It's your wife who'll be getting the visitors.'

Nathan swung round, his fist clenched. Sweat shone on his forehead. ‘You threaten that again, you little bastard, and I'll kill you!'

‘You can't protect her and you know it,' Taylor sneered. They had been through this scene before and Nathan always threatened to kill him. He wasn't afraid of him any more. ‘You play ball with us and she won't get hurt. That's the deal. I want to know the name of the person they're sending to Italy. And I want it by the end of the week, so Svenson can warn them.'

‘I tipped you off about Firelli,' Nathan said. ‘I'll find this one; but don't talk about hurting Marie, see? Just don't talk about that …'

‘All right.' Taylor relaxed. ‘Have a Scotch.'

‘Go to hell,' Nathan said bitterly. He had often thought of killing Taylor in the last two years. But it wouldn't have helped. It wouldn't protect Marie from the forcible fix that would start the whole nightmare over again. Even if he moved her away somewhere, and busted the whole organization to the Bureau, he could never be sure that sometime, somewhere, the hoodlums known as rent collectors wouldn't find her alone one day. The dealers in narcotics had long memories. Even from a Federal prison men like Taylor could exact revenge. There was nothing he could do but work for them, and he had recognized this long ago. He made his threat, but it was meaningless. And every time he was a little more broken.

‘I'll get the name for you,' he said. ‘Meantime stay low. I've told them you're clean, but there's a guy called Carpenter working on it and he's no fool. If they hadn't killed Firelli you mightn't be in this mess! I told you at the time to leave him to me. I could have stalled him.'

‘He'd gotten too close,' Taylor said. ‘He can't make trouble where he is.'

‘No,' Nathan agreed, ‘but his boss didn't like it. And Ben Harper never gives up. You should've explained that to your pal in Italy!'

‘You get me the name of the undercover man,' Taylor said. ‘By next Friday. Svenson leaves on Saturday morning. You call me and give me the name.' He finished his drink. ‘Or else …' he said. Nathan looked at him, and called him a filthy name. Then he went out of the apartment. Taylor looked at his watch. He had an appointment with the Swede, and he was running late. He had booked a couple of girls for the evening; they were taking them to dinner and then coming back to his apartment for the finale. He didn't know how Svenson had the stamina. He was exhausted just by watching, and the Swede insisted that he stayed. He knew Taylor got no kick out of that kind of thing, but it amused him to force the other man to participate. Fortunately he was only required to act as a voyeur. He sighed, wondered if there was time to pour another quick Scotch, and decided that there was. He had given Nathan four days. Behind the glasses his eyes were narrow with anxiety and rage. Firelli had penetrated the Italian end of the organization. Now another agent was going in. Ben Harper never gave up. He wiped his forehead; it was damp and his stomach felt uneasy. The last thing in the world he wanted was an evening of strenuous sexual activity, even as a spectator. If Nathan failed him—if he hung back … Impotence against men like Ben Harper and the men in the Bureau who couldn't be corrupted made him especially vicious towards his only victim. He'd fix that wife of his; he'd have her filled so full of heroin she'd walk on water.…

He went downstairs, got out his car from the garage under the apartment block and drove to meet Svenson. The two whores were already at his hotel.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dinner at the villa was at nine. In her son's absence the old Duchess sat at the head of the long marble table with John and her daughter-in-law on either side. It was a long, low room, panelled in rose-coloured marble and lit by a superb Venetian chandelier; the furniture was painted in the soft colours of eighteenth-century lacquer, pale yellow and gold with touches of green and blue. It was a cool, summer room, designed for the hot months, and in winter they abandoned it for a smaller dining room on the other side of the hall. The old Duchess ate very little and drank watered wine. She was abstemious from a lifelong habit of watching her weight, and it amused John Driver to see her adulterating the excellent claret. He suspected that she didn't really like wine, whereas she had the sweet tooth of old age and had greedily drunk down three of his specially made Old Fashioneds before dinner. Her cheeks were flushed and her lovely eyes bright; she looked at Francesca and at him and smiled.

‘It always seems strange without Alessandro, don't you think so?'

Francesca didn't answer. Driver was watching the old lady sharply. When she drank she was inclined to be malicious. She had been very pleasant to her daughter-in-law before dinner and he hoped that her mood wasn't changing.

‘He'll be back soon,' he said.

‘I don't know why he ever goes near that horrible place,' the Duchess said suddenly. ‘Poor Alfredo wouldn't notice. It's so gloomy and cold. I always hated it, but his father would spend the summer months there and Sandro is just the same. He says Alfredo gets lonely. I wish he'd let us stay in Florence.'

‘It gets too hot,' Francesca said.

The Duchess dismissed her with a look. ‘Not for me,' she said. ‘Old people feel the cold. The Castle is like a tomb. I shan't go this year.' She made the remark with defiance. She made it every year at regular intervals and nobody took any notice. When Alessandro said it was time to leave the city the family left. She raised a pretty hand, adorned with an enormous turquoise and diamond ring, and patted her lips to hide a yawn.

‘I'm tired tonight,' she said. She smiled affectionately at John Driver. ‘Too many of your lovely cocktails,
caro
. I don't think we need any fruit for dessert.' She rang the bell and got up. She put out a hand to John. It was a gesture that had brought men running to her all her life. ‘Help me upstairs, please,
caro
.'

He took her arm, and slipped his own around her. Over his shoulder he signalled to Francesca. Wait for me. Then, supporting the Duchess, they climbed the staircase to the first floor.

It was some time before he came into the library. Coffee had been brought in and Francesca di Malaspiga was sitting waiting for him. She raised her head and smiled. He came towards her and their hands reached out and gripped. Neither spoke. He knelt by the chair and put his arms around her; her head went back on his shoulder and they kissed. There was silence.

‘Do you want coffee,' she whispered, ‘before we go upstairs?'

‘Why not?'

‘Why were you so long with her? What were you doing?'

‘Talking. She wouldn't let Gia undress her till we'd had a talk. She was tipsy, darling. I'm sorry you were waiting.'

‘I spend my life waiting,' she said quietly. ‘Waiting for her to go to bed and for Sandro to be out of the house.'

‘I love you so much,' John Driver said. ‘I have to wait too.'

‘I know,' she said. ‘I know.'

‘What happened with the cousin today?' she asked him. She smiled, but the pitch-dark eyes were watching his face. ‘Did you fall in love with her?'

‘No,' John Driver said gently. ‘There's only one woman for me. You ought to know that. I took her round the galleries, we spent the morning looking at that rubbish of Ferris's, and then I gave her lunch.'

‘And what did you talk about?'

‘About Sandro,' he said. ‘I told her to be careful, I told her not to take him seriously.'

‘She won't listen,' Francesca said. ‘They never do. No woman has ever said no to him.'

He leaned forward and kissed her. ‘I know one,' he said.

‘I hate him,' she whispered. ‘I hate him as much as I love you. I hate them all.'

‘Shush, sweetheart,' John Driver said. ‘It doesn't matter. Nothing matters except you and me.'

‘Why do we have to wait?' she whispered. ‘Why can't we go now? He's away, we could leave tonight …'

‘Be patient,' he whispered. ‘You know I love you. When the moment comes I'll take you away. We'll have the rest of our lives together.'

‘The thought of the summer drives me mad,' she said. ‘That place where I was so miserable—my God, the idea of going there makes me ill. And that mad old uncle, wandering about. He should be shut up!'

‘He does no harm,' Driver said. ‘When you think of the Castle, try to remember that it's where we came together for the first time. Then you won't hate it so much.'

‘It's easier for you.' She spoke with bitterness. ‘You have work to do. Sandro likes you, my mother-in-law dotes on you—that old madman follows you round like a dog—they all hate me! And now there's this girl!'

‘You shouldn't mind about her,' Driver said gently. ‘You shouldn't be jealous. You have me. You shouldn't care what he does with anyone else.' He kissed the side of her neck; for a moment her eyes closed with pleasure, but they flashed open again, tormented by inner visions.

‘I'm jealous,' she whispered. ‘I think of how he treated me, how he abused me and humiliated me, and the thought of him making love, enjoying himself with other women, makes me mad! I could kill him!' She turned in his arms, and put her hands on his cheeks. ‘Try to understand,' she said. ‘It doesn't alter my love for you, John. I've stood by while he paraded his mistresses, and it was torture. But this cousin is worse. She's different to the others.'

‘That's what Mama said,' Driver nodded. ‘She's worried about it too.'

‘Not for my sake,' Francesca interrupted. ‘She despises me; she doesn't care how I feel. All she knows is I haven't had a child—I've failed in my duty to the Malaspigas! If she's worried, it's on her own account. And she's jealous. She's been the centre of attraction all her life—with Sandro too. She has to have men dangling after her—her son, you, anyone male. Her vanity makes me sick. She doesn't like the cousin because she's afraid that Sandro will pay more attention to her.'