The Malaspiga Exit (7 page)

‘A little,' Katharine admitted. She looked at the beautiful old woman, wreathed in chiffon, emphasizing her remarks with graceful gestures and that constant smile, and wondered how much she had deliberately suppressed a keen intelligence in order to accommodate the conventions of her generation. Isabella di Malaspiga was not a fool; she was a woman of taste and judgement who had assumed the role allotted her by circumstances and the accident of her exquisite beauty. Her destiny had been relinquished into the hands of her husband, and her son. An extraordinary man, she called him. A man whom nothing deterred, who had given a death-bed promise and carried it out. It should have sounded like melodrama, but it didn't. There was a cool, factual quality about the magnificent old lady and her acceptance of what he had achieved. Men ordered the world in which the Duchess lived. If one was fortunate, they governed wisely. Otherwise one suffered as a result of their mistakes. Whatever happened there was nothing to be done about it.

Katharine recalled herself to the present and to the purpose which had brought her there; she was shocked at how easily she had slipped away, and how pervasive even the old Duchess was as a personality.

‘I didn't have time to read everything,' she said. ‘I was so absorbed I didn't realize that it was getting late. I wonder—do you think Alessandro would mind if I came back and finished all the letters?'

‘But of course not,' Isabella di Malaspiga said. ‘Come whenever you like.' It was easy then to get up, to cross to her chair and take the hand that was as light as a leaf.

‘Thank you for tea,' Katharine said. ‘I'll come again in a day or two.'

‘I shall look forward to it,' the Duchess said. ‘We can have another talk.' The bright smile was still on her lips when Katharine left the room, but her eyes were looking somewhere else. She realized suddenly that this was Isabella di Malaspiga's secret, the recipe for her survival. Nothing and no one came too close to her. The beautiful smile, the gracious manner, were an impenetrable barrier against the outside world. As she began the long walk down the Viale Galileo to the bridge, Katharine envied her that barred-and-bolted attitude to life. She herself had never felt more vulnerable or more uncertain. Her home and the life she had lived, even the nightmare of her brother's addiction and death, all seemed to have blurred around the edges. It was as if she were losing her contact with the real world and slipping into that inhabited by her cousins. Alessandro di Malaspiga had disturbed her; she hated his arrogance, his cynicism; she had to fight consciously against his charm. It was a mistake to analyse him, to probe into the reasons why he was what he had become, to pass opinions on his mother. It was getting too close, becoming involved. That didn't make it easier to go through his desk, to record his conversations.

She had to remember that none of them was what they seemed. She had placed the bug and the recorder; the fact that her hands shook and she felt frightened afterwards were healthy reactions. Her unwillingness to go back and do it again were not. She had made the opening, saying she needed more time to look at her family papers. But as she crossed over the river and found a taxi to take her to the hotel, Katharine knew that the last thing in the world she wanted was to go to the villa or see any members of the family again. Back in the hotel she took a hot bath, trying to relax. She admitted that her confidence was shaken; thinking of the moments when she was reading the address book and searching the drawers, she felt numb with fright. If the door had opened, if the Duke had returned unexpectedly … Angrily, she reminded herself that in spite of these reactions she had learned two very important things: Malaspiga's connection with a New York antique shop and his visit to Hollywood and the film star John Julius.

Carpenter had emphasized the need to pass on information as soon as possible. She ordered herself a Campari soda and dialled the Florence telephone number which was the contact with the Italian Narcotics Bureau, the same number which Firelli had dialled before he disappeared. A woman answered and Katharine gave the code word. It was a man who came on the line.

‘This is Cousin Rose,' she said. ‘I've made contact and I want to report.'

‘Any progress?'

‘Yes, I think so.'

‘Then we had better meet. I will be outside the east door of the Baptistry in half an hour. I will carry a large sketch pad under my arm, and I shall wear a panama hat with a green band. Use your call sign; mine will be Raphael.'

In the Piazza del Duomo there were little groups of tourists on the steps of the Baptistry staring at the Ghiberti bronze doors, which were one of the wonders of the city, fingering the little raised figures, and listening to the explanations of a guide. She saw him standing a little apart, the sketch pad under his left arm, wearing the panama hat with a green ribbon, and she walked up to him.

‘I'm Cousin Rose,' she said. He took off his hat, showing a semi-bald scalp with a fringe of curly black hair. He shook hands with her and smiled.

‘Raphael,' he said. ‘I'm glad to meet you. Let's go and have a drink. There's a nice little café over there, on the other side of the piazza.'

The place was full of tourists, drinking coffee and eating ice-cream; a few Italians sat sipping glasses of Stock, with the usual tumbler of iced water on the side. They found a corner table, and he tucked himself in, apologizing for the crush. He seemed a nice, ordinary man in his mid-forties. He could have been behind the counter in the café. He leaned towards her.

‘Welcome to Florence,' he said. ‘How do you like our city?'

‘Very much,' Katharine said.

‘Have you been sightseeing yet?'

‘Yes.' She wondered how long he was going to waste time. ‘I went to the Uffizi and the Pitti when I first arrived.'

‘Good,' he said. ‘I didn't order you a drink—what would you like?'

‘Nothing,' Katharine said impatiently.

‘That wouldn't look natural,' he said. ‘If anyone is watching us they've got to think we've come here to enjoy ourselves. Relax, Cousin Rose; smile at me. I'll hear your report in good time.'

‘I'm sorry,' Katharine said. ‘You're quite right. I'll have a coffee—
capuccino
, please.'

‘I've been a policeman for twenty-two years,' he said. He had two front teeth with gold base caps and they glittered when he smiled. ‘I've learned to take my time. It isn't easy.'

She tried to smile, to relax as he intended, but his presence across the table had added a frightening dimension to her situation. The worst part of her mission had proved to be the easiest. Meeting her relations, getting on friendly terms with Malaspiga, all had been accomplished without difficulty. None of the complications which she had imagined before going to the villa had impeded her progress. They had been friendly, hospitable, and the Duke had been warm and charming to his new cousin. Perhaps a little too warm …

The coffee came and she sipped it; the tiny cups of Espresso were too strong. To her surprise, she found that drinking even such a small quantity made her nervous.

‘You're worried, aren't you?' Raphael said quietly. When she shook her head he smiled. ‘There's no need to be ashamed,' he said. ‘This is a very nasty business. Any intelligent person would be afraid. Tell me about it.'

‘I've been here ten days,' she said. ‘Maybe I've lost touch with reality. I don't know how much you've been told about me, but I'm just an ordinary person who has been picked out to do this, given some quick basic training and sent out. I felt confident when I agreed to do it. I had a special motive.'

‘Yes,' Raphael said. ‘Your brother.'

‘He was an addict, he died. I saw him go through hell and there wasn't anything I could do to save him. They picked me up right after his funeral and put this proposition to me. I said yes.' She lit a cigarette. ‘Nobody forced me, in fact my instructor spent most of his time trying to scare me off. But I was determined to stop these people. I wanted to hit back.'

‘And now you're not sure?'

‘I'm not sure I can do it,' she said slowly. ‘I've met the Malaspiga family. They're not at all what I expected.'

‘Nicer?' he prompted. She hesitated. The word was ill-chosen, it didn't apply to the old Duchess, still less to her cousin the Duke. It was too small a word for people fashioned on such a grand scale.

‘Different,' she said. ‘I can't explain it. It seems impossible they could be mixed up in this.' She gave a shrug, exasperated at herself. ‘Maybe I just don't like spying; I went through his desk today,' she said. ‘I feel unclean. I wish there was another way. I don't feel I've got the nerve or the experience to carry something like this through to the end. I suppose the trouble is, three weeks' instruction wasn't enough.'

‘It was very little, for this type of work,' he said. He didn't seem disturbed or critical. His eyes were calm and they expressed understanding.

‘You're a nice girl, from a nice background. You were brought up not to look in other people's drawers or read their letters. Obviously, you are honest, because of the way you've talked about yourself. I understand all this. You're the sort of woman who would never search her husband's pockets when he was asleep.' His gold teeth flashed in a smile. ‘You expected these Malaspigas to be monsters, Mafia villains, easily identifiable, didn't you? Instead, you meet a cultured, charming family of Italian aristocrats, and, believe me, charm is the passport issued to that class at birth. You feel cheated. They're not so easy to hate. They've been friendly to you, and you don't like spying on them. Also you're in Florence, and the States and what happened to your brother seems a little far away. A bad dream? Am I exaggerating?'

‘No,' Katharine said quietly. ‘I don't think you are.'

He leaned back in his chair, tipping it a little.

‘Ben Harper thought this might happen,' he said. ‘He's a very good psychologist. Tell me something—do you want to give up and go home?'

‘No,' Katharine answered. ‘I'd never forgive myself if I did that.'

‘Just self-doubt, a little weakening of motive, is that all?'

‘They're my relations,' she said slowly. ‘My grandmother was a Malaspiga. That's why I was chosen.'

‘Oh? And you've been taken to the bosom of your family—no wonder you feel uncomfortable. I know how strong the blood-tie is with all Italians. Even of humble origin.' For the first time she sensed hostility. He hadn't minded her confession of nervousness, her irrational sense of guilt for what she was doing, but he resented her connection with the Malaspigas.

He leaned towards her across the table.

‘You asked me if I knew about you. I didn't know you were one of
them
. Harper didn't tell me that. But he expected you to have second thoughts, and so he prepared me for it. Before you feel guilty about betraying family trust, or allow yourself to be seduced by their charm, there is one thing that you should know, which Harper didn't tell you. The real reason why your brother died, just when it seemed that he had a chance of being cured.'

‘What do you mean?' she said. ‘What do you mean, the real reason …'

‘He spent six weeks in the clinic outside New York, didn't he? Then three months at the convalescent home. They told you he was rehabilitated, that the miracle had happened. He was off heroin and there was hope, for the first time.'

‘Yes,' she whispered. Tears had come into her eyes. The memory was vivid. Peter coming back with her in the car, looking alert, able to smile and talk about the future; he'd put on weight, he looked in possession of himself for the first time in years. She would never forget that afternoon. Hope, the Italian had said. The staff of the home had come out to see them off, shaking hands and waving as they drove away. She put a hand up to her eyes as if to shut the memory out.

‘He was going to live,' Raphael persisted. ‘You thought you'd won, didn't you? For the first few days you stayed with him day and night, watching him, not quite believing it was true—and then you went out to the theatre. He stayed at home.'

‘I've never forgiven myself,' she said.

Raphael was a hard man, inured to pain by long experience. He didn't flinch at the misery he saw on her face.

‘When you came home,' he said, ‘he'd disappeared. I can imagine how you felt. The anxiety, the despair. Admitting to yourself that it had all been an illusion. You never saw him alive again, did you?'

‘No.' She said it very low. ‘No. When I got to Bellevue he was dead.'

‘He was murdered,' Raphael said. ‘When they found him he was lying in a back street, unconscious from an overdose. His body was badly bruised. Your brother didn't go out to look for drugs; the pusher came and looked for him. As soon as he was left alone, they came and forced a fix on him. He must have struggled, from the way he was marked. He didn't want it. But they made him. He was underweight and weak. He hadn't a chance. They gave him a lethal dose and took him out of your apartment to die in the street. You mustn't cry—people are watching you.'

‘I don't care,' she whispered. ‘Oh God—why didn't Harper tell me?'

‘Because you didn't need to know it then; you had a strong resolution. He kept the ace in my sleeve. You know why they killed him, don't you?'

She shook her head. She found a handkerchief and pressed it to her eyes. Raphael was leaning over the table, holding her hand.

‘It's the mark of the Malaspiga operatives. Anyone who tries to give it up is dangerous. They might go to the police, identify the pusher. Especially an addict like your brother with a rich family and connections. So they killed him to make sure.' He let go of her hand, lit a cigarette and passed it to her.