She went through the silent house and snubbed back the Yale lock on the front door, then wandered into the living room to wait. It was so dreary and depressing that she decided she'd wait upstairs in the museum room and quiet her jumping nerves by examining Zeb's collection. The cat, now replete, preceded her up the stairs and accompanied her into the large front room where everything was quiet and orderly. Penny slid back the glass sliding door of the first case and began to look at some Indian cooking pots that Zeb had painstakingly restored. "Not bad," she was musing to herself, when the cat let out a sudden unearthly yowl and, appearing from behind the desk, disappeared out of the door like an orange flash.
Startled herself, Penny looked around to see what had startled the cat. She approached the desk, her ears straining for a noise from below. Then she looked behind it...
The small form of Wanda Dimola lay spread-eagled on the floor, hidden from sight by the desk's massive bulk. Her eyes were open and fixed in terror, her fair hair matted with fresh blood. This time there was no doubt about the murder weapon, for by her head lay a large Indian flint pick, its sharp edge blood-stained. Penny looked with sick unbelieving horror at the still figure. For the second time the murderer had struck, and again it was she who had been the unwitting cause ...
CHAPTER 16
Penny was still in a state of shock, but this time she was determined to bring the two ends of the case together, so she called both the Barnstable and the state police. They arrived almost simultaneously and now Detectives Thompson and Eldredge were listening grim-faced to her account, as the technicians snapped their cameras and dusted the room for prints. Eldredge stood incongruously clutching the murder weapon, which from its very nature would hold no prints. "Reckon the murderer picked up the first thing that came to hand," he said, "and it won't do us one damn bit of good."
"Yes," Penny agreed drearily. "I remember seeing it right there on the desk. I think Zeb must have used it as a paperweight."
"You say you had this appointment for 9 o'clock, that you were only a few minutes late and yet you heard or saw no one around?" Detective Thompson glowered at her. "The doctor says she could have died only a few minutes before you got here."
"Yes, for some reason she must have come early. I've no idea why," Penny said, "unless she was looking for something here. But don't you see this points clearly to someone in the Dimola household? No one outside knew of my appointment with her. There was only one possible way anyone could have known, and that was someone at« the house who heard her on the telephone last night and who followed her this morning . , ."
She was interrupted by the door of the museum room bursting open and the insurge of the Dimola family en masse, spearheaded by a white-faced, blazing-eyed Alexander who rushed across the room, brushing aside the small knot of technicians around the body. He knelt down beside it with a little moaning cry and touched the white cheek with a pathetic gentleness, then sprang to his feet, his hate-filled eyes taking in Penny and his brother. "You did it!" he roared at her. "You were responsible, you and your meddling. You got a murderer out of jail and now he has killed her. Damn you to hell!"
He advanced menacingly toward Penny, so that Thompson moved his considerable bulk in front of her. "Now, then, none of that, Mr. Dimola," he said threateningly. "We all know what a shock this is, but calm down, or else..."
Even in her own shocked state Penny watched the reactions of the rest of the Dimolas. It was strange to see the large Inga literally clinging to her smaller husband, her big body shaking uncontrollably, the pale blue, terror-stricken eyes starting out of the pallid face. Steven was the calmest of the group, but there were beads of moisture on his forehead, and from where she sat she could detect the acrid smell of sweat on him. A nerve jumped under Annette's right eye and she twisted her hands together so tightly that the knuckles stood out white. Maria was biting her lips and shivering, her dark eyes switching from brother to brother as if imploring aid that was not forthcoming.
"Don't you threaten me!" Alexander roared at Thompson. "You've fallen down on your job because of this silly old interfering busybody, but now go get him. I want Eagle Smith—and I won't rest until I see him dead for this."
"Lay off her." A new voice broke in, and Officer Birnie came through the doorway accompanied by Carson Grange. "You're way out of line, Mr. Dimola. Eagle Smith had nothing to do with the murder of your wife." He looked over at his chief. "Acting on information received from State Trooper Grange here, I went over to the Smith cottage at 8 o'clock this morning to question Smith concerning a possible drug charge. I got him up out of bed. State Trooper Grange joined me at 8:30 and we questioned Smith together until after 9 o'clock. When we came out I heard of the murder here over my car radio. Eagle Smith could not possibly have murdered your wife, Mr. Dimola, he was with us the whole tune. But I would very much like to know why you think he would have had a strong enough motive to kill her..." Again he turned to Detective Thompson, who was looking startled at this new note of authority from his subordinate. "I think it's high time we started to listen to Dr. Spring here and start treating these three cases as a connected unit." His glance took in Detective Eldredge. "We got nothing out of Eagle Smith on the drug business, but after I'd heard the news I went back into the cottage and told him about the murder. That opened him up. He told me what happened on the bog that day"—Birnie favored Penny with a piercing stare—"and he begged me to find Dr. Spring—he was afraid apparently that someone would try and murder her."
Penny was so touched by the young Indian's concern for her safety that had led him to destroy his own, that tears came into her eyes, and Birnie, seeing how the news had affected her, softened his tone. "I'm sorry," he muttered to her, "I didn't want it this way either, but the lad really didn't want you to get hurt." Then collecting himself, he swung around to Alexander Dimola again and snarled, "So I ask you once more, why did you think there was a connection between Eagle Smith and your wife?"
The wild light in Alexander's eye had died out and was replaced by a look of abject misery. "You're sure about this?" It was almost a whisper. Birnie nodded. Alexander's head moved from side to side like an animal in pain. "Oh, what's the use! She's dead, what can it matter to her now!" His voice was agonized. "When I took her to Boston with me this time she went to a doctor. She'd promised me she'd go several times before, but this time I made sure, I went with her. Well, then it all came out. She confessed to the doctor, to me, that she'd been on a steady diet of uppers for over a year, that she was hopelessly hooked on them. I don't know how she made the contact with Smith here— she didn't tell me that—but I do know he was her contact. At first she used one of the maids as a go-between. Then, when the maid got picked up, they all got frightened. They'd been using several pick-up points around the estate so as not to arouse anyone's suspicions, the barn on the bog, Zeb's dig, a gardener's shack over by the marsh ... She swore she wanted to quit and agreed to go into a clinic for a cure..." His voice broke a little. "We only came back here for a couple of days to ... well... get together again and sort out what she would need and what we should do about telling the family. I could see she still had something on her mind, but she wouldn't tell me about it So, when I heard of this, I naturally thought she had tried to buy Smith's silence for the family's sake, but that he'd killed her instead."
"So you knew nothing of her appointment with Dr. Spring?" This from a hard-eyed Detective Thompson.
"No"—Alexander's eyes suddenly blazed into life again as he turned to Penny—"if I had, she would be alive now. I'm sorry for what I said just now, but you were still the cause of her death. So, do what you set out to do, find whoever did it. No matter what it costs, how ever long it takes, find the killer. Find out for me!"
Before Penny could open her mouth to reply, the two" detectives had joined in the chorus. "Yes, Dr. Spring," Thompson said, "perhaps we had better have a conference, if you'd go over the ground again for us." Eldredge agreed.
This time there was
an interruption from Carson Grange, who had been silent up to this point. "In the name of humanity, I suggest it be postponed. Anyone with half an eye can see Dr. Spring has had a very severe shock. Look at her, she's as pale as a ghost! Give her some time to recover, for God's sake!"
"But I understand she's been having someone investigate overseas, and we need that information now." Detective Eldredge frowned at his young colleague.
"Can't it wait " Carson began angrily, but Penny held up a restraining hand.
"It's all right," she said. She summoned up a pale smile for her champion and braced herself to plunge back into the fray. "I'll be glad to give the united police forces what I have so far. It's not a great deal as yet, but I am expecting more information very shortly." She paused and let that sink in. "I have nothing that has a direct bearing on this tragedy, although one rather interesting fact has come to light. Mr. Rinaldo Dimola was married for the first time in Italy during World War II." She stopped and quickly took stock of their reactions. Although the police were looking suitably impressed, the Dimola family greeted her announcement in silence—and she had the feeling that, far from being a shock, it came as no surprise to any of them . , .
Toby returned to Colle d'imola with the distinct feeling he had at last accomplished something useful to pass on to Penny, even if he was not quite sure what that accomplishment was.
He shied away from thinking about his next target, the reclusive Contessa. From what little he had heard she sounded the very last kind of woman that he would ever seek out of his own accord. Indeed, the very thought of her frightened him half to death, but it was something that just had to be done. He sighed inwardly. The only means of entree would have to be the priest. This thought cheered him slightly, because what could possibly happen with a priest around? However, the priest would have to be approached with a great deal of tact, for he would not appreciate the fact that Toby's object was to rattle the skeletons in the family closet of his most prestigious parishioner.
How to go about it? This question absorbed him as he absentmindedly ate his way through the substantial dinner provided by Mrs. Enrico. After it, he did not join the group in the bar, but sat in gloomy state in the parlor, puffing furiously on his pipe until the whole room was enveloped in an aromatic blue cloud, and aiding his cogitation's by liberal libations from the bottle of a rare rose Enrico had triumphantly produced for him .
As it turned out he could have saved himself the effort; the priest came looking for him. An obviously impressed Mrs. Enrico came rapping at the door to say Padre Antonio was outside and would like to speak with the Signore. Quickly recovering from his own surprise, Toby rumbled a mellifluous assent, and as an afterthought asked her to bring another glass for his unexpected visitor. With a despairing glance at her white lace curtains, already yellowing under the assault of Toby's tobacco fumes, Mrs. Enrico hurried off as bidden and returned with both priest and glass.
The priest was a palely plump man of young middle age, with a great deal of lank black hair and a tendency to sweat. His black soutane was shiny with long wear, and by the hungry way he eyed the wine bottle Toby deduced that this parish priest at least was not one who enjoyed the fat of the land.
"Sir Glendower, it is indeed a pleasure to welcome a person of such eminence to our village," he said, pro-f erring a wet, plump hand.
"Professor Glendower," Toby corrected, for he privately loathed his title and only used it under extreme duress.
"Oh, professorel" The priest's face fell a little. "I had understood that you bore a title."
"Well I do," Toby agreed grumpily, "but I don't use it much, but if used it should be Sir Tobias."
The priest looked totally confused, and Toby was glad to see that he seemed as nervous as he was himself.
He offered a glass of wine, which was accepted with alacrity, and the priest, perched on the edge of one of the hideous magenta armchairs, took several grateful sips before reopening the conversation. "I understand you are here on business," he said tentatively. "Perhaps I may be of some service to you."
Toby nodded. "Perhaps."
"A professore of history? This has been a most interesting area; I can tell you much of it."
"No, I'm a professor of archeology."
The priest looked further confused. "Oh, I'm afraid I know little of that. There is not much here that I know of. Is there something in particular you are seeking?"
Toby relented a little. "Actually I am concerned here with fairly recent history. I am making enquiries for a friend about a man who was here in the war and was also back here about two years ago." He carefully replenished the priest's glass, which finished the bottle, and stood up. "I think I will ask Enrico if he can find us another bottle of this excellent vintage," he said, and watched Father Antonio narrowly as he went on: 'The name of the man was Rinaldo Dimola—I hope you can tell me something of him." He went quietly out, leaving the priest looking thoughtfully at the deep pink liquid in his glass, and as Toby collected another bottle from Eruico he was positive that the name had indeed hit home.
When he returned the priest was expressionless, but there were little beads of sweat on his brow. "I was not here during the war. I am not from this region," he said, "I am from Verona, so I am afraid I can be of little help."
"But you were here two years ago," Toby persisted. "Did you see him then? He was here on several occasions."
"Yes, I believe so," Father Antonio admitted with considerable reluctance. "I met him in the churchyard—he was putting flowers on a grave there."
"Yes, the memorial of his wife, Christiana AmaLfi," Toby said with deliberation.
The priest looked thunderstruck. "His wife!"
"Yes. They were married right here in Colle d'Imola. It is strange that she was buried under her maiden name, is it not?"
"Indeed!" the priest muttered, and avoided his eyes.
"Did you notice any other strangers equally interested in your churchyard about that time?"
"Why yes!" Father Antonio seemed to welcome this change of subject. "There were several American ladies, very lovely, blonde American ladies. One gave me a donation for the church."
"How many of them?"
"Two—no, three, I think."
"Any men?"
The priest used the same line as Enrico. "In summer we often get tourists—one cannot keep track." His brow clouded. "But there was one young man who was like the man of whom you speak. He could have been a son. You are acting for this man?"
It was a strange way of putting it. "No," Toby said truthfully, "but Rinaldo Dimola is a man of great importance and lies stricken, unable to speak for himself. We are trying to elucidate an important matter that has come up concerning him."
"I am sorry to hear that," the priest muttered automatically. "You say 'we'— you have a companion here?" He sounded anxious.
Again that seemed an odd remark to Toby. "No-^she is in America, on the Dimola estate." A small silence ensued.
Toby decided it was time to take the bull by the horns. "It would be of considerable help to me if I could speak with the Contessa," he said with deliberation. "I understand that you are the only person in the village who visits the palazzo. Would it be possible to ask her to grant me an interview?"
To his amazement the priest gave him a sudden beaming smile. "Why, how fortunate you should say that! I came tonight not only to make your acquaintance, professore, but also, I confess, in the role of emissary. The Contessa, you understand, rarely has the pleasure of talking with anyone of her own social standing. She was much excited when she heard that a milord inglese was staying in the village and asked me if I would seek you out and invite you to the palazzo."
Toby was suitably startled. "I would be most happy indeed to go with you to see the Contessa," he said a little anxiously. "When would it be convenient?"
The priest was now positively animated. "Why not tomorrow morning, say around 11—the Contessa is a late riser. I will come for you here."
"Excellent!" Toby, elated by this, went to pour the priest another glass, but Father Antonio shook his head and got to his feet. The animation died out of his face. "It grows late, professore, and I must say early Mass tomorrow. There is one thing I must tell you before you go to the palazzo." His dark eyes were troubled. "The Contessa is a very sick woman, sicker than she knows. And she is very greatly troubled in her mind about her son. I must not cast stones. Sir Tobias, but he has always been a great burden to her. Nevertheless, she loves him dearly—and now, it seems, he has disappeared."
CHAPTER 17
Despite the lateness of the hour, Toby put in a call to Penny, whom he caught just about to sit down to an insubstantial dinner. He was so elated by his own progress that he rattled on, oblivious to a certain lack of response from his partner. "So it really looks as if you are on to something," he concluded. "The Contessa's unsatisfactory son is missing and all your suspects were sniffing around here on the heels of Rinaldo two years ago. I could not find any trace of Steven in Colle d'Imola but all the rest were seen by the priest."
"Steven isn't very noticeable, so he may have been there too." Penny's voice sounded very weary. "And you can scratch one of my former suspects—she was murdered this morning." Rapidly she filled him in on the latest catastrophe and he listened in worried silence. At the end he said, "Are you all right? You sound terrible. I wish to Heaven you'd get out of there, go to Boston or something. I don't like the way things are going one little bit."
"Oh, Toby, how can I? I admit this has hit me pretty hard, but I feel responsible for that poor girl's death. I have to see it through now. The worst of it is that I think this was probably an unnecessary murder—the murderer must be starting to panic. I have the awful hunch that all poor Wanda was about to do was to confess to me about the drug business in an effort to get Eagle Smith off the hook on the more serious charge. The devil of it is I can't be sure. However, the murderer may have gone too far this time—both police forces are now working on the case, and pure routine investigation may pin down which of the Dimolas could have been at the Grange house at that early hour. But what still puzzles me about your end of it is why it took Lorenzetto—if he is the body in the bog—two years to do anything about his father. If you can turn up anything on that it would be a great help."
Cape Cod caper Page 14
