Follow That Blonde

by Joan Smith

  “I'm not leaving here if Nick's going to see Boisvert alone."

  “Of course we're not leaving, silly.” We looked around for a sofa or coffee shop. “We'll go into the Garibaldi Room and have an espresso. If we sit near the door, we'll be able to see the lobby."

  That's what we did. Before too long, a red streak outside the window told us the Alfa-Romeo had made it without its driver getting killed. We ran to the door and intercepted Nick.

  “Didn't Bert come with you?” I asked.

  “No."

  “Why not?"

  “He's aging the Frageau."

  “You can't go up there alone."

  He patted a bulge in his jacket pocket and grinned. “I'm carrying heat."

  “You watch too many American movies."

  “If you hear a shot, go start the engine. I might have to make a quick getaway.” He uttered a low, excited laugh, and tossed the car keys on the table. “I'm parked right outside.” In the no parking zone, no doubt. “I'll get Boisvert's room number at the desk."

  He left, and I picked up the keys. I felt as if I was sitting on an atom bomb, and didn't know what to do. From our table we could see Nick go to the reception desk. The clerk was shaking his head. In a minute or so Nick was back. “Boisvert didn't use his own name. I don't know what room he's in. I'm going to ask around the maids for a Frenchman. The clerk just came on duty. He doesn't know, but somebody must.” He left again.

  “Bert should have come with him,” Nancy said.

  “I wonder why he didn't.” I knew what Nancy was thinking. If Bert had been doing a little Frageau business with Boisvert on the side, he might have stayed home to notify Boisvert Nick was on his way. “I hope he didn't phone Boisvert and let him know Nick was coming!"

  “Oh God! I'm going to phone Bert.” Nancy jumped up and ran to the clerk. She was soon back. “Bert didn't answer,” she said. Her face was chalky, and her eyes were glazed. “He's supposed to be aging the Frageau. Why didn't he answer? I've got to warn Nick."

  “We'll both go."

  “No, one of us better stay here. Nick told you to start the car in case of trouble."

  “He wasn't serious—was he?"

  “Now it's serious,” Nancy said, and strode into the lobby, turning right at the desk, as Nick had.

  I sat on alone, looking at a bitter cup of espresso and clenching the car keys in my fist. I should do something more—call the police maybe. Except that I might only succeed in getting Nick arrested. I knew he had a gun, but I didn't know Boisvert had. He had his henchman to do his shooting for him.

  A few people straggled in and out of the hotel. I watched, in case I should spot Boisvert or his hired gun. A funny-looking man in a black beard and moustache with a Panama hat pulled low over his sunglasses caught my eye as he entered. He even walked funny, with his shoulders all hunched forward. It looked like a disguise, but the man was too small to be Boisvert, and too big to be his henchman. Probably just some roué keeping an assignation with a prostitute. It looked like that kind of hotel.

  The man didn't stop at the reception desk, so he was apparently either a registered client or visiting a room whose number he already knew. Something about the man bothered me. I couldn't possibly know him. Had I seen him at the Quattrocento? At the Contessa's party? No, there hadn't been anyone there in run-down loafers. Oh my God! Bert Garr! What was he doing here? Had he phoned Boisvert, and arranged to come and help him take care of Nick?

  I leapt up from my chair and pelted into the hall. He had disappeared. There was a creaky old elevator with grillwork doors, but I decided to use the stairs. With my heart banging in my throat I ran up the wide, dusty stairway to the next floor. A couple of tourists, the woman in a blue dress and red face, the man in a white shirt and red face, stalked past, belching German. There was no one else in the corridor. I walked slowly down, listening at each doorway. I heard a couple of youngsters fighting with their mother in English, another German couple talking, and some gurgling, international lovemaking noises, but mostly all I heard was silence.

  Back to the stairs and up to the next floor. Various activities were going forth in various languages, including maids making beds and flushing toilets, but there was nothing that sounded like Nick, or Bert, or Boisvert, or Nancy. There was just one more floor, and it was half empty, even at the height of the tourist season. Where had they all disappeared to? I took the elevator back downstairs and met Nancy, waiting in the lobby.

  “Where did you go?” she demanded petulantly.

  “Where did everybody go? Bert's here."

  “No!"

  I told her about the disguise. “Maybe he came to help Nick,” she suggested hopefully.

  “Why would he bother disguising himself from Nick? If he's been telling the truth, Boisvert doesn't know him. Obviously he was afraid Nick would see him. He came to help Boisvert."

  “Honestly, Lana, I don't see why you're so negative about everything."

  “You're the one that made me suspect him in the first place."

  “Sure, of petty nickel and dime stuff. He'd never help Boisvert murder Nick."

  “Then why were you so worried when he didn't answer the phone? Anyway he's here, and he's disappeared."

  A waiter from the Garibaldi Room looked down the hall at us. “We didn't pay for our espresso,” I reminded her. We went back to the table.

  “I'm having a Campari and soda, even if it is morning,” Nancy said. I nodded and she ordered two. When they arrived, she said, “I can't believe we're sitting here, drinking while Nick and Bert are ... Oh what the hell are they doing anyway?"

  Before long, Nick came back, looking crestfallen. “I can't find him,” he admitted. “He must be booked in here. I'll have to do a stakeout."

  “Bert's here,” I announced.

  “He came to help you,” Nancy added firmly.

  Nick grinned. “Good old Bert. I knew he wouldn't be able to keep away. Where is he?"

  “Search me. He came in fifteen minutes ago.” I described the disguise.

  “His Toulouse-Lautrec outfit. He wore it to a masquerade party at my place last year."

  To my shame, my first reaction was jealousy of that party, and his escort. I'd never been to a masquerade party. Why were we so dull in Troy? Then it occurred to me that Bert had purposely worn a disguise that Nick recognized, and I felt a wave of relief. Almost immediately the realization followed that he must be hiding from Boisvert, and that meant Boisvert would recognize him. So they had had doings. I gave Nancy a piercing look, suggesting she should drop a few hints about Bert's other possible reason for being here.

  She lifted her chin and said, “Just like Bert. He wouldn't leave you in the lurch."

  “I hope he took the Frageau out of the oven before he left,” Nick said.

  “He'll probably go by the door soon,” Nancy said firmly. “Then we'll all decide what to do."

  “Why don't you two take your luggage back to the house and do some sightseeing, or shopping?” Nick suggested.

  The “take your luggage back to the house” was slipped in unobtrusively. He looked at me, with a smile in his eyes.

  I said, “The tour must be wondering what happened to us."

  “I'll phone Ron later this morning,” Nancy said. “We'll join the tour in Salerno."

  Nick glanced out the window and said, “Oh cripes."

  We followed the line of his gaze. The Contessa was just climbing out of a white Bentley, wearing her yellow tinted shades again, and looking like a million dollars. She disappeared, and in a minute she was at the lobby. She looked into the Garibaldi Room and saw us. She did a quick double take but recovered quickly, like a lady who was accustomed to unpleasant surprises. Possibly even a crook? Nick lifted his hand and waved, and she came in, smiling.

  “Niccolò!” She kissed him, just left of center on the lips. A peck on the cheek was the more conventional Latin greeting. A short spate of Italian ensued between them. I made use of it to admire her dress
, a mint green linen today, with the same array of tinkling bracelets and green snake-skin sandals. And still no blisters adorned her slender feet. How did she walk on those stilts? She said a few words to us, and left.

  “She was just driving by and stopped to pick up some matches,” Nick explained. “Terrible habit, smoking.” His intelligent eyes told his opinion of that excuse.

  “A funny place for her to happen to be driving by,” I said. “Even funnier that her car doesn't have a lighter."

  “Funniest of all, she doesn't smoke,” Nancy added.

  “I never have seen her smoke, now that you mention it,” Nick said. “So she knows Boisvert. Why else would she be here?"

  Nancy erupted into raucous laughter as she does when her nerves have had more than enough. “She must have been ready to crown us when she saw us sitting here."

  Nick beckoned for the bill. “We better scram. She'll call Boisvert. I'd rather not find a bomb under my hood."

  “We can't leave Bert here alone!” Nancy exclaimed.

  “He probably slipped out some back door ages ago,” Nick said. “He'll be waiting for us at the villa, wearing his stupid-innocent face."

  “But Boisvert might check out,” I said.

  “It doesn't matter now. We know where Rosa lives, and they'll be getting together,” Nick said, with one of his lazy, languorous smiles.

  CHAPTER 11

  We had some good luck, and some bad. The good luck was that the car wasn't bombed, nobody followed us, and Nick didn't hit anything—except the pillar when he pulled into the driveway at his house, and that was only a light tap. You could hardly see the new dent in the fender. The bad news was that Bert wasn't at the villa. Oh, and Nick considered it good news that Bert had remembered to take the Frageau out of the oven. Not that anything would have happened to it at one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, and with the oven door open. Bert had forgotten to turn off the oven. Nick lit four Gauloises and propped them on a plate with the smoke wafting toward the painting. We all held our noses and looked at this bizarre scene for about two minutes.

  Nancy said, “He must still be at the hotel.”

  “Maybe we should go back,” I suggested. “We left our luggage there."

  Nick said, “Right, we'll go back."

  He changed his shirt to a red and white Hawaiian print, put on his dark glasses, a camera over his shoulder, and a silly-looking white cotton hat turned down all around. “I'm disguising myself,” he explained.

  “As who, Don Ho?” I asked.

  “As a tourist, in case Rosa reported me to Boisvert."

  “I'm glad you're not trying to look inconspicuous."

  “I hoped it might blind him."

  “Works for me.” I put on my shades, too, and we all left.

  Nick parked a block away in a parking lot with an attendant, to prevent anyone from putting a bomb under his car. We walked past the hotel on the far side of the street. “There's a terrace outside!” I exclaimed, pointing.

  “That's where they usually put them,” Nancy said. She was still ticked off with me for not trusting Bert. “We wouldn't be able to see the lobby if we sat there."

  “We're not particularly interested in the lobby,” Nick said, and led us through a gate to the terrace. “You girls order something and I'll take a run inside."

  “Do they sell lollipops?” I inquired. He gave me a wary look. “In future we'd both appreciate it if you didn't call us girls. We teach girls and boys."

  His wariness turned to frustration. “The last time I called a girl a lady, she told me lady was a four letter word."

  “So's a girl."

  “What do you—female people—want to be called?"

  “Woman is a nice, safe five letter word."

  “So's b—” He bit back the b word, and muttered something in Italian, no doubt profane, into his collar. Before he left, our waiter came bustling up wearing a black beard and moustache, a short white jacket and run-down Gucci loafers.

  “Bert! What are you doing here?” Nancy asked.

  “The noon shift. Tables one to nine,” he said out of the side of his moustache, handing us menus. “Stay clear of the pasta. They're reheating yesterday's. Looks like a tub of albino worms.” Ugh!

  “You mean you're working?” Nancy inquired.

  “Read my lips."

  “Read them? I can't even see them."

  “I'm doing the noon shift. They're short-staffed, begging for help. I stumbled into the kitchen by mistake. They stuck this dumb short coat on me, and here I am. The tips are terrific, especially the Americans. Know how you tell a European from a canoe? The Europeans don't tip. And before you call me a racist, I want you to know I heard that one from a wop."

  “I always tip!” Nick protested.

  “Nothing personal, old buddy. And to prove I'm not a racist, I've got another one,” Bert continued. “How do you tell an American from a rowboat?"

  “I personally never had any trouble telling them apart,” Nancy said.

  “Boy, you guys sure know how to wreck a joke. If I said ‘knock-knock’ you wouldn't know enough to ask ‘Who's there?’”

  “All right, Bert. How do you tell the difference between an American and a rowboat?” Nick asked.

  “The rowboat has both oars in the water,” Bert said, and looked expectantly for applause.

  “Now that you've insulted the western hemisphere, I have a question for you,” Nick said. “Any sign of Mr. Greenwood or his associates?"

  Bert frowned. “That's not a riddle—is it?"

  “No, Bert. It's a question. Party time's over."

  “Oh, you mean Boisvert. Not so far. The guys at table seven are parlaying français. Why don't I sit you next to them? You never know, they might have met our other French friends. Oiseaux of a feather, if you get my drift. They might let something slip."

  We removed to table eight, across from two not uninteresting Frenchmen. They were younger than Boisvert's man, and more handsome.

  Bert drew out his little pad and pen. “A Campari for starters, folks?"

  “It's nearly noon. Let's eat,” Nancy suggested.

  We ordered the fruit plate with cottage cheese. Bert left, and I leaned an ear toward the next table and translated for the others. “There's either a rooster or a cockroach in their room,” I said. “Or possibly a boiled egg. I'm not sure whether the word was coq, or coque, or coquerelle."

  “Could that be Boisvert?” Nancy asked.

  “I don't think so. He stepped on it. Must have been a cockroach. Une jolie petite fille told the one in blue where to go for a good time.” Nick's interest perked up. “Unfortunately I couldn't make out the answer,” I told him.

  One of the Frenchmen wore a blue jacket, the other a white shirt. The one in the white shirt was more handsome. He was soon sliding dark, hopeful glances at Nancy. “Smile at him,” I told her. “Maybe you can get him talking."

  She turned her head and batted her long lashes. The man turned his chair at forty-five degrees from the table, giving him a view of her body profile. She smiled shyly at him. “He's afraid I'm with you, Nick,” she said. “Put your arm around Lana's shoulders."

  Nick complied, in his own Latin way. “The shoulder's the part that sticks out at the sides, Nick. Not the front.” I lifted his dangling fingers from my breast.

  The Frenchman raised his glass in a salute to Nancy. She coyly turned away, but with an encouraging peep over her shoulder. Bert came back with our lunch. Three-quarters of the “fresh” fruit was straight out of a can. The “fresh” grapes were turning brown around the stem. The cottage cheese was sour, and the buns were the same consistency as the cobblestones underfoot. Not having to eat left Nancy more time for flirtation. Within two minutes, verbal contact had been established.

  In a mixture of French, English, and a few stray words of Italian, introductions were made. Over coffee, the Frenchmen, Claude (handsome, white shirt) and Réné (so-so, blue suit), joined us. They were civil servants on holiday from
Rouen. Usually they went to Germany, but this year they came to Italy instead. They seemed innocent, but I decided to add a catalyst of my own to the conversation.

  “I teach Art in the States,” Nancy smiled. “And my friend—” She turned to me.

  I stretched my hand out to Claude and said, “Ms. Frageau. I'm an artist."

  Claude gulped and his head swiveled to Réné. “But you're a woman!” They exchanged a startled look that held a question. Nick, Nancy, and I did likewise.

  Réné recovered before his friend. “Are you also from America, Miss Frageau?” he asked.

  “Yes, from Boston, but I lived for a few years in Paris before coming to Rome,” I said, in case they knew where Frageau-Hansen was born. I said it in French to substantiate the lie.

  The atmosphere had become noticeably tense. Not even Nancy's fluttering lashes and smiles and deep inhalations that stretched her blouse to interesting proportions could detain them for long. They rose like twin puppets, shook our hands, said it had been charmant to meet us, threw some bills on the table, and took off like a pair of darts.

  “I'll follow them,” Nick said, and strode swiftly after them. They were all three running when we spotted them over the fence, hustling down the street. The blur of red, white, and blue looked like the American flag in a high storm.

  “Why did you say that?” Nancy demanded.

  “What did we have to lose? I wanted to see their reaction. Well, we saw it. They know I'm not Frageau. They know Frageau's a man. ‘But you're a woman!’ Claude said. Did Boisvert bring a whole army over here to kill Nick? He had one man at the gallery, now these two."

  Bert noticed Nick had left and came to our table. “What's up?” he asked, moustache twitching.

  “Do you happen to know if those Frenchmen are registered here at the Risorgimento, or were they drop-ins?” I asked.

  “They came through the gate. That usually means they're drop-ins. Where's Nick gone? Was it just nature calling or—"

  “He's chasing them,” I said, and told him why.

  He scratched his head, picked up the money from their table, pocketed two bills, and said, “Anything for dessert? The spumoni's safe. Nobody's complained about it yet."