The Malaspiga Exit (23 page)

‘To the main gallery,' Alessandro answered. ‘I'm going to show Katerina our pictures.'

‘Ah, that's all right then. If you'll excuse me, I won't come with you. This hat won't do; my ears are quite cold.'

‘Hurry and change it then,' the Duke said. ‘We will see you at lunch.'

‘Yes,' the old Prince said. He hesitated for a moment. ‘You will take good care of her, won't you?'

‘Very good care, I promise,' the Duke said. He pressed Katharine's arm. ‘He has taken a great liking to you,' he said. ‘You have a disturbing effect on your relations. We go through here; take care, the doorway is low.'

They passed under a narrow arch and out into a vast gallery, lit by windows high up in the wall and extending to the level of the ceiling. The light fell downwards as if they were in a church. ‘This was where our family and their household used to walk and gossip and amuse themselves. The Duke heard petitions here. I use it for my collection of pictures. And mis', Alessandro said, ‘is the Giorgione. Don't you think it's beautiful?'

Katharine said simply, ‘Yes,' because anything more would have been superfluous. It was a Madonna and Child with St. Anne and the infant St. John. The colours were as fresh and brilliant as if the artist had just finished the picture. There was a serenity about the faces and a grace in the composition which could only be appreciated in silence. She thought wildly, Why does he do this dreadful thing—there's more than two million dollars hanging there in front of me.

‘If you were so poor after the war,' she said suddenly, ‘why didn't you sell this?'

‘Because it was supposed to be a copy,' her cousin said. ‘My father sold what he could, but this picture wasn't thought to be of any value. I had it authenticated afterwards. It is worth a fortune. It would fetch over two million dollars on the open market. I told you, nothing would induce me to sell such a masterpiece. But I was thinking of keeping it for my son.'

He lit a cigarette and she took one from the gold case. ‘You must be making a fortune out of your antique business if you can afford to keep pictures like that.'

He laughed. ‘I am—I'm very successful. All Florentines are good at trading. Why do you always look so disapproving when you mention it? Our ancestors were moneylenders; it's just a euphemism to talk about bankers. There's no disgrace in it.'

‘Of course not, I didn't mean that. You know the pieces you're sending to America,' she tried hard to sound casual, ‘I didn't really have enough time to look at them—perhaps I could go again?'

‘I'm afraid not,' he said. ‘They're being crated up and the men are coming in the morning. And this afternoon I have a plan for you. We're going to the Villa Romani!'

She looked away, afraid to let him see her face. Tomorrow … The furniture would be packed up by tomorrow. And he wouldn't show it to her again. Now there really was no choice. She had to see that picture … He had some excursion planned for the afternoon. She looked round for an ashtray; the cigarette tasted rank. ‘Give me that if you don't want it,' he said. ‘I'll put it out Come and look at the view from this window. Then I'll show you the portrait of Paolo di Malaspiga, the most wicked of us all.'

She followed him to an embrasure in the wall; a little flight of steps brought them up to the level of the window and as they stood there, their bodies touched. He put his arm around her and it was like a band across her shoulders.

‘You can see right across the plain to the coast,' he said quietly. She stood stiffly beside him, staring ahead, hating the feel of him so close to her.

‘We held the whole countryside round here for five hundred years,' he said. She felt him turning, moving imperceptibly downwards towards her, and with an effort she drew back. His arm slipped away, releasing her. There was no change in his expression: friendly, charming, mocking rather than angry.

‘Show me the wicked Malaspiga,' she said.

‘Aren't you looking at him?' the Duke asked.

‘If you say so.' Katharine hoped her voice was steady.

‘He's here, in this corner. There's no record of the artist; there have been several attributions, but they were all fake. Nobody knows who painted him. I want you to look at the interior very carefully. There's an interesting story.'

There was nothing remarkable about the portrait; it showed a thick-set man with a sallow complexion, a hooked nose and small black eyes, wearing the loose red surcoat and cap of the fifteenth century. As far as she could see he was standing in a stone-walled room with a crucifix in the background. There was a small arched window, no wider than an arrow slit, high on one wall.

‘He built the eastern wall and the turret,' her cousin said. ‘He was the second son, and tradition says he poisoned his brother. And his nephews; he married off his nieces for political alliances. He had only one wife, but she was known as the captive Duchess. She was the daughter of a nobleman who held lands over by Bocca di Magra, and Paolo kidnapped her and married her as a hostage against her father. People who didn't pay his taxes were roasted alive. But he's really remembered for one of the rooms in the eastern turret. He was so pleased with it, he had it painted into his portrait.'

‘He sounds delightful.' Katharine shuddered. ‘What was so special about the room?' She had a feeling of discomfort; vague panic signals were flashing in her mind. There was something about Malaspiga Castle which she knew was very frightening. It had frightened her so much as a child that she had made herself forget it.

‘I'm keeping that a secret,' he said. ‘It's part of the Grand Tour we will make tomorrow.'

‘Tomorrow's Monday,' she said. ‘I have to get back.'

‘There isn't any hurry,' he said. ‘Already you're beginning to like it here. I think you'll stay for Monday too. Now we'd better go to lunch.' He caught Katharine by the hand and swung it as if he were holding a little girl. ‘Don't worry,' he said. ‘I shall be discreet. And this afternoon, after we've been to the Villa Romani and walked through the gardens, we will have a little talk. I can see, my dear cousin, that you are not going to accept me without an explanation.'

It was a strangely gay party that set out that afternoon. The old Duchess had laughed her pretty laugh, and promised Katharine that she would love the villa; John immediately said he would like to come too, and perhaps Francesca would enjoy it. Uncle Alfredo giggled and nodded his head. It was a fabulous place. And the gardens! They were unique. There was more laughter at this remark, and Katharine began to feel bewildered and ill at ease. Whatever the joke, it was going to be at her expense. There was a light in Francesca's cold black eyes that told her that. She saw Alessandro di Malaspiga watching her, and a feeling of fear welled up in her, strangely mixed with pain.

She felt helpless and on the defensive; it wasn't a feeling she liked. It made the circle of smiling faces with their expectant looks into something sinister. ‘Whatever the joke is,' she said lightly, ‘I hope it's a pleasant one.'

‘Very pleasant.' That was John Driver. She thanked him inwardly for the reassurance. ‘You'll love it,' he said.

Carpenter went down to the detention cells with Nathan. He went inside and waited, while Nathan sat on the cot, and bent down to undo his shoes.

‘Is there anything you want? Coffee?'

‘No.' Nathan shook his head. He straightened, kicking his shoes off, and grimaced. Under the ugly naked light he was sickly white, with a sheen of sweat on his skin.

‘Why don't you tell me?' Carpenter said, repeating Harper's question over the past hour. ‘Why did you do it? Why did you get mixed up in this? You were the last guy in the world to go bent.'

Nathan looked up at him. ‘You got what you wanted,' he said. ‘You got your confession. I murdered that bastard because I knew he was going to put me on a contract to stop me talking. So I've talked. You've got his contact in Sweden and the connection in Italy. The next assignment coming from there is going to be full of “junk”. I can't give you any more and my motives are my own business. Now I'd like to get some sleep.'

‘There must have been a good reason,' Carpenter said. ‘It could make a lot of difference to you if you'd say what it was.'

Nathan lay back on the cot. The hammers were breaking down the walls of his chest. Marie was dead and nobody was ever going to know she was an addict. He didn't care if they gave him life for killing Taylor. He was not having anyone throw mud at his wife …

‘You've got your testimony,' he said. ‘Now get lost, for Christ's sake.' He heard Carpenter go out and the locking mechanism on the door snap into place. He lay with his eyes closed, feeling the pain in his chest increase. Blow after blow, melting into one another until it was a single agony, running like fire down his left arm. Sweat ran down his face and he groaned once before the embolism burst through from his heart and exploded in his brain. A few minutes later when the security guard looked through the peep-hole in the door he thought the prisoner was asleep.

Frank had the file out in his office; he wasn't going home that night until he had confirmation from Raphael that Katharine had been withdrawn from the mission. He kept reminding himself that in a few hours she would be out of danger. Taylor's evidence would give the Italian authorities enough to justify the arrest on suspicion of the Duke of Malaspiga, of his associate Lars Svenson, and the general round-up of all his business partners. From past experience there was no loyalty among the smugglers.

The prospect of thirty years in prison always produced two or three State's witnesses. Katharine would be coming home. Harper had sent an urgent message telling Interpol the facts disclosed by Nathan in his confession, and emphasizing the need to get her out of contact with the Malaspips as quickly as possible. He knew ‘Raphael'—he had met him with Ben Harper before Firelli went on his mission, and he respected his ability and judgement. He wouldn't delay. There was a flask of coffee on his desk; Carpenter poured some and sipped it, reading through the file.

Harriet Harrison's revelation; the morbid scandal of seven years ago, hushed up by threats of acid throwing—the much-publicized figure of Elise Bohun Julius, gliding through the society columns, hosting her famous Hollywood parties, and the reality behind the pose. A drug addict, the daughter of a Blue Book Pennsylvania lawyer whose fortune came from an obscure Italian girl he met in college. A fortune founded on bootlegging, prostitution and the protection racket. Elise Bohun was the grand-daughter of Alfredo Zappone, one of the most feared and powerful of the syndicate that operated nine-tenths of organized crime in New York State. A hidden figure, never photographed, a name without a face; Zappone moved in shadow and there was nobody brave enough to try and subject him to the light. His daughter had taken her mother's name; when his grand-daughter married Richard Bohun there was no connection with the gangster who was credited with over forty killings and ran a criminal empire of a hundred million dollars. His power and his money had made a judge out of Richard Bohun, re-established the couple in the family house, previously sold because of debts, and introduced his grand-daughter as a beautiful, accomplished debutante in the best American society.

In that society, in a world where money and degeneracy mixed, she had fallen victim to the craze for drugs. The influence of Zappone moved quickly to protect her. Since no cure was possible, the family supplied her, and in consequence they had used her to set up Eddi Taylor.

A number of Hollywood stars and producers were ensnared, and the domain of Zappone had extended to the movie industry. Carpenter could imagine the opportunities for blackmail, for obtaining options on big film deals, for the purchase of shares which wouldn't have been available. And Harriet Harrison had stumbled on a part of it. He had heard of the practice of bribing servants in the star's employment; several of the big columnists used the method and Harrison had freely admitted it. From one of the maids she had obtained a used syringe which Elise had neglected to clean out and hide, after a particularly rapid-acting fix. The analysis of the syringe showed heroin, and immediately the hunt was on. Harrison had one of the biggest scandals of her career; as a prelude to the final revelation, she had published the hint about the Malaspigas. Apart from the hypodermic, the maid had discovered something else. He remembered Harrison's pretty, pain-lined face as she looked at him, the mouth twisted in its perpetual sneer.

‘It must have been some honeymoon! And then the husband caught them at it. The maid said it was a real Grade A Hollywood scene. But I never got to print it.'

Zappone's emissaries had made sure of that. So the friendship between the Malaspigas and the John Juliuses should have ended when the Duke and Duchess left the next day. But it hadn't. Julius had assured him that on two occasions Elise paid private visits to Italy. Carpenter had forgotten his coffee and it was tepid.

Perhaps Malaspiga had been blackmailed; there were so many pressures that people like the Zappones could exert on somebody with a public image to protect. He might have been unwilling to start with, until the fantastic profits from the sale of heroin provided their own motive. Alfredo Zap-pone had died three years ago; Carpenter remembered the wide press and news coverage given to the funeral. The unknown king of crime. And the usual speculations as to who would assume his crown. Zappone's organization was part of the Mafia although he was a Neapolitan. Drug smuggling was a Mafia enterprise and jealously protected.

The young Duchess di Malaspiga had given him the means, by force or persuasion, to involve the head of one of Italy's great families in providing cover. It was ironic, in Carpenter's view, that the Tuscan Prince should have learned so quickly from the Neapolitan peasant. Zappone's business interests, if that was the right description for extortion, protection and prostitution, had been dissipated among rivals; the kingdom disintegrated. Nobody had imagined that it had transferred the most profitable enterprise of all direct to Italy. There was a knock at his door and one of the night staff secretaries came in. ‘Telex from Florence just come through,' he said.