Daggers and Men's Smiles (21 page)

“Which is why I've arranged for a police guard on the door of her hotel suite. And since there is also the possibility she herself is in danger, the guard serves a double purpose. As for the signorina, it's more likely she was the decoy for someone other than Sydney Tremaine. When we get to the manor, park around the back, Falla. We are going to obey the Vannonis' commands, and go in through the tradesmen's entrance.”

“May I ask why, Guv?”

“Because the only mini-break we've had on this case came from a contact of the Vannonis' servants. I want to see if we get lucky again.”

Security had obviously been beefed up since the discovery of Gilbert Ensor's body in the bunker. As Liz Falla brought the car to a halt alongside a jeep and a row of motorbikes, they were immediately approached by one of the private security staff, who peered into the car, acknowledged them with a touch of his cap, and moved on. The back door of the manor was locked, and Moretti rang the ponderous iron bell pull alongside it. The sound reverberated inside the house.

“You'd expect a zombie or something to answer that, wouldn't you, Guv?” said Liz Falla with a theatrical shiver.

The door was opened instead by a tiny black-clad woman, who fixed them with a baleful glare.

“Yes?”

“Police,” said Moretti, pulling out his identification.

“You go front,” she said, starting to close the door.

“Signora, come sta? Italiana?”

“Si.”
Cautiously, the door opened a little wider.

“Mi chiamo Eduardo Moretti. Mi padre era Italiano — da Pistoia.”

“Ah — Pistoia!” The door opened wider again.

Still talking, Moretti eased himself into the hallway, with Liz Falla close on his heels.

Where the passage of time and the outlay of money had bestowed a mellow richness and a warm and mature patina on the formal and family areas of the Manoir Ste. Madeleine, the servants' areas of the building were in need of, at the very least, a fresh coat of paint. The corridor in which they stood had a general air of neglect, with faded wallpaper peeling off the walls, and some rather ratty linoleum underfoot.

“Signora, your name is —?”

“Teresa Stecconi. I've been housekeeper here longer than I care to remember. Oh, what a business this is! That poor man, and the poor signora and her fatherless children!”

“Indeed. You know Anna Albarosa?”

“Of course. I've known her since she was a little girl. I came here with them, to help them move, and I never went back. They are my family — I have no one else.”

“So you knew Patrizia.”

“Of course. Now,
she
knew the marchese
and
his father when he was a little lad — such a wild one, the marchese's father, she said. Who would have thought he'd become such a pillar of society!”

“So he was wild, but aren't all young ones wild? Like the marchese's son, Gianfranco, for instance?”

The old woman snorted. “Ah, Gianfranco! He is
signor perfetto
compared to the marchese at his age. Mind you, that was just boyish wildness, not the crazy madness that Patrizia used to speak of. But that's all gone now. Still waters run deep, she used to say. Who would have guessed?”

“Crazy madness? This would be when the family were still in Florence, or Fiesole?”

“No, no, before that. But I wasn't with them then.”

“So,” said Moretti, hoping that he sounded reasonably interested but not interrogatory. “This would be when she was with them at the other house.”

Teresa Stecconi looked sharply at Moretti. “You know about that? That's the past. Bury the past, I always say, with its dead.”

“But now there are dead in the present, Signora, and perhaps the reason for that lies in the past.”

Moretti watched the shutters come down. The old woman turned away from him.

“We are here now,” she said. “I have left the memories — the bad and the good — behind me. Patrizia should have done the same thing, always moaning about how much better it was — there.
Buona sera, ispettore
.”

She turned and, with a speed that took both Moretti and Liz Falla by surprise, she zipped off down a side corridor and out of sight.

“So, where does that leave us, Guv?” asked Liz Falla, peering after the spritely octogenarian.

“I'm tempted to say in limbo, but that's not quite true. What she told me was interesting, because she more or less confirmed there was another house. And something more than that — something happened in that house that was so terrible everyone has been sworn to silence.”

“I must ask you, Detective Inspector — where have you been? The security guard says he saw you into the house about half an hour ago!”

Flushed with anger, gold chain rattling, the marchesa faced Moretti across the broad expanse of the main salon, which was still encircled with lights and cameras. Beside her sat Monty Lord, holding her hand. He looked haggard and worn.

“Marchesa — there has been another murder, as you know, and part of my responsibility is to check the security of you and your family.”

“There was no need to disturb my domestic staff — and we have private security for that.”

“Need I remind you they were unable to save the life of your son-in-law, Marchesa.”

Thank heavens Monty Lord is here
, thought Moretti.
He seems to have a calming influence on her.
The producer sat staring at them across an elaborate malachite table, as though hoping for some kind of miracle.

“This is a disaster, Detective Inspector Moretti. A tragedy. I got in from the shoot only to hear that Gil was missing. Selfish as it may sound, I must tell you that I have been on the phone to our lawyers to check we are covered for such an eventuality, that we may go on filming
Rastrellamento
. It would help nobody and serve no useful purpose if the whole project went up in smoke.”

“And are you?”

“Covered? Yes. Death is covered — the nature of it is not significant. If you understand what I mean.”

“Of course. You say you were on the set — the shoot, you called it?”

“Yes. This morning we were filming some of the action scenes out at L'Ancresse. Mario was not with us, he needed a rest, he said. So much of the war stuff is logistical, and his associate director had plenty to be getting on with.”

“Where is he now?”

“Sedated.” It was the marchesa who answered. “He was very upset.”

Moretti decided to leave that for now. Instead he turned his attention to Monty Lord.

“I understand you went to see Gilbert Ensor yesterday morning.”

“Yes. I wish now I'd kept an eye on Mario, because I knew how angry Gil was. But I'd no idea he'd get up the energy to come here and that they would run into each other when Mario returned from checking the bunker.”

“Checking the bunker?”

“Yes. We had planned to start shooting there in the next few days. Now, of course, it's yet another scene of the crime, isn't it?”

“I'm afraid so. When you took me down there, Mr. Lord, the door was locked. Was it always kept locked?”

“Supposedly.”

“Who had keys?”

“Myself, Mario, and I think there was a key in the house — wasn't there, Donatella?”

“Yes. When this happened, I went to make sure it was still there and it was.”

“Where was ‘there,' marchesa?”

“In a drawer in my bedroom. I had two copies made for Monty and Mario.”

“I see. Was anyone around when Gilbert Ensor and your director had their confrontation?”

“I was. It was unbelievable.” The marchesa was disturbed enough to get up from her seat by Monty Lord and start pacing. “I thought Gilbert was going to attack Mario physically — hit him, I mean, not just scream at him. We were all getting used to that.”

Spoken with the contempt of one who has conveniently forgotten her own assault on Ensor after the first murder,
reflected Moretti. “Did he have to be restrained?” he asked.

“Yes. By me. He was out of breath from just the screaming. It wasn't difficult.”

I believe it,
thought Moretti.
A very strong woman, this one. Like her niece.

“Then what happened?”

“Piero Bonini came in and ordered Gilbert off the premises. He told him he would get an injunction to keep him away from the shooting, if he did not do so voluntarily.”

“Where did all this take place?”

“Out on the terrace.”

“So any number of people saw what happened?”

“Yes. It was disgraceful. Mario tried to reason with him, explain the nature of the changes, talk about his personal philosophy of filmmaking, but he was shouted down.”

“Did you see Signor Bianchi leave, Marchesa?”

“Yes. It was I who took him away when he broke down, and I made sure he got something to eat and a rest before he went into town. He had an appointment.”

“With whom, do you know?”

There was an exchange of glances between the marchesa and Monty Lord, and it was Monty Lord who replied.

“Mario has regular appointments with a psychiatrist, and we were able to make a similar arrangement for him here. I imagine you know he has had problems with substance abuse in the past.”

“And those problems are, you are sure, part of the past?”

“I'm certain of it.”

Moretti stood up. “If Signor Bianchi has taken sedatives, there is little to be gained by questioning him now. We will come back.”

As they left the room, Moretti looked over his shoulder. The marchesa had her head on Monty Lord's shoulder and he was patting her hand. Beneath the shining dome of his shaved head, the expression in the American producer's eyes was panic-stricken.

“Now, are you sure you'll be all right?”

Betty Chesler thumped the pillows behind Sydney Tremaine's head and tugged at the bedcovers with the grim determination of someone erecting ramparts around a threatened and vulnerable keep. The two women had met on the Pavlova movie and had kept in touch with the odd letter and card over the years.

“Thank you for coming with me, Betty. I'm so grateful. I'll be fine now — I'll take one of the sedatives you put by the bed and get some sleep.”

“You know, pet — it's hardly the time to mention it, but you should think of getting back into the swing of things. You have so much to offer.”

“Oh, Betty, honey, I couldn't dance professionally again!”

“I don't see why not, but I was thinking of how well you worked with those children on the Pavlova set with their dancing. It's been a while, but people still remember you. You should take advantage of that while you can.”

“Oh Betty, I don't know —”

But the thought lingered after Betty Chesler had left. Sydney heard her speaking to the police guard outside the door, and then there was silence.

She leaned over the side of the bed, fingered the bottle of sleeping pills, and shuddered at the thought of sleep. The last thing she wanted to do was sleep, perchance to dream. She got out of bed, took a shower, and made herself a coffee.

For the first time in her relationship with Gil she was grateful he was an only child and both his parents were dead. In the past, she had thought that being a much-adored child had only made matters worse when fame arrived on the scene, because it had prolonged his indulged childhood into a self-centred manhood. Gil expected to be worshipped. She couldn't bear to think of where he was now, and what would happen before he could be laid to rest — a new state of being, or non-being for Gil. Laziness came naturally to him, but not restfulness.

Sydney forced her mind away from the thought of what had to be done over the next few days, and concentrated on what Betty Chesler had said. Once or twice she had suggested to Gil she might like to put her talents to some use, only to be discouraged.
No
, she thought,
not just discouraged. Derided.
Gradually, the fragile flower of hope and belief in herself had withered and, she had thought, died. It would be ironic if it took the death of her husband to bring it back to life again.

Sydney finished her coffee, went into the bedroom, and pulled out a leotard from a drawer. She changed into it, went through into the sitting room, and put some music on the stereo. Slowly, with a sense of strangely unbroken continuity rather than that of a return after an absence, she started to put her body through the sequences followed by every classical dancer anywhere in the world.

About an hour later, she stopped. She went back into the bedroom, put on a tracksuit over her leotard and a pair of running shoes, and made a phone call. Then she unlocked the door of the hotel suite.