"About nine, I think. When he came back here I only saw him the one time and he was much changed. He was proud again and excited, and I know he upset his mother very badly."
"But did he give her or you any indication of his plans?" Toby asked vexedly. "This is the most vital point of all. We have got to find out why he went to America when he did. I mean, where did he get the money to go? Was it from someone over there?"
"He told me nothing—nor his mother, I could swear." Father Antonio looked harried. "But there is one person who might be able to tell you. Could you take me into Imola? I will take you to her."
"Right away!" Toby surged to his feet, imparting some of his own sense of urgency to the priest, who hurried with him back to the Bentley, and roared off at a speed that had Father Antonio telling his beads.
"And who is this woman?" Toby asked when they were down the mountain and on the main road to Imola. "Well, she is someone with whom Lorenzo has been involved for a great many years. I happen to know about her because just after I came here the Contessa used me as an intermediary to, er, break things up. Lorenzo wanted to marry her, but his mother would not coimtenance that. The girl was—well, you will see for yourself! Anyway, she made it plain to the girl that if she married Lorenzo she would never be received at the palazzo, nor would he ever see another lira from the Contessa. She also gave the girl quite a sum of money. It worked up to a point: they did not get married, but they have never really broken up, if you follow me. I do hope she hasn't moved," he added anxiously, as they entered the outskirts of Imola. They drove to a mean-looking apartment building in a back street just off the ancient heart of the town, and the priest studied the names on the rusty mailboxes in the hallway with an anxiety replaced by sudden relief. "Ah, she is still there. This way, professore."
He led the way to a grimy doorway which had once been an improbable bright pink. He tapped on it and called softly, "It is Father Antonio, Francesca. Please, I must talk with you!"
The door opened a crack to reveal a pair of dark eyes of a terrible inward blankness, set in a thin, pale face. "What do you want?"
"I must speak with you of Lorenzo."
'That fucking cocksucker!" she said, causing the priest to flinch backward, and she went to close the door. Toby in the best gumshoe tradition hastily jammed a foot in it. "Madam, you'll either talk to us or to the police—take your choice," he boomed.
That did it. She shrugged, flung the door open and turned her back on them, flicking a great mass of dyed blonde, not overly clean hair back over her shoulder. "I might have known!" she said. "Now what has that bastard been up to?"
Toby went in, pushing the unwilling priest ahead of him, and closed the door. They followed her into a cluttered room impregnated with the smell of cheap, stale perfume. "So"—she wheeled to face them—what do you want of me, busting in here like this! Don't tell me the bum has surfaced at last. If you come from him, I can tell you one thing straight—I want my money back and fast. Him and his promises I" She snorted and tossed her head.
Toby decided shock tactics would be the best way to get anything out of her. "We have every reason to believe that Lorenzo Amalfi is dead—murdered. And if you are at all interested in seeing his murderer caught, or getting any of your money back, it is imperative you tell us everything you know about the circumstances of his trip to America."
She became very still and the blank, hard eyes widened in shock. "Lorenzo—dead?" she whispered.
"I'm afraid so." Toby's voice took on a gentler tone. "I'm sorry to have to break the news like this, but the matter has become an urgent one. If you cared for him at all, please help us."
She sat down slowly, her eyes still dazed. "Oh, Lorenzo!" It came out as a little moan. "What is left for me now?"
"Please!" Toby prompted gently. "He came to you, did he, when he got out of prison? Did he mention hearing from a Rinaldo Dimola?"
"Yes," she said dully, "there was a letter. He was so excited. There had been a man waiting for him when he got out of prison. A private detective, just like something in a movie. He gave him the letter and some money; a long letter, many, many pages—he showed it to me. Oh, it was all about how the man was his real father and how he'd never known because of that fucking bitch at the palazzo, and how he was going to make it up to Lorenzo, and that he was rich—so rich!" A faint glow came into the dark eyes. "Lorenzo was so happy. 'My big chance,' he kept on saying, 'my big chance. Now I'll show them.' "
"Did this letter mention arrangements for going to America?"
"No." She shook her head violently. "His father said he would come out to Rome and meet him and they would talk over his future. He spoke of his second family and how he'd have to prepare them for Lorenzo. But Lorenzo wouldn't wait—couldn't wait. Said he had to go off right away in case the old man thought better of it. 'I've got the right,' he kept on saying, 'I'm his eldest son, he can't send me away—I've got the right.' "
"So his father was not expecting him?"
"No. Lorenzo was going to, like, surprise him. Get all his travel arrangements made and then just tell him at the last minute. He was pretty sharp, you know."
"But why was he in such a hurry?"
Her face became blankly sullen. "Well, I mean, with all that money the old man had! 'We'll be living on velvet,' Lorenzo kept telling me. And, besides, he'd crossed some people here; he was afraid to stay around in case they got on to him."
Toby scented evasion but did not press. "If the private detective gave him money, why did he need any from you?"
"The money was supposed to keep him going until Big Daddy got here. It was enough for the air fare to America —but there was the passport. He had to buy one under the counter, see, and they don't come cheap!"
"Where did he get it?"
She shrugged. "No idea."
"And what name did he use?"
Again she shrugged. "I don't know—he used several, Salas, Croce—maybe he used Dimola; after all, that was his name, he told me. He always stuck to Lorenzo though."
"Well that should help narrow it down," Toby murmured absently. "And do you know whether he went to New York or Boston, and exactly when he left?"
"New York, I think. But I don't know when he went. He left here about mid-September, but he still hadn't got the passport. He was going to get it in Rome—you could get anything there, he said." Her sallow face suddenly became pinched and spiteful. "So what about my money, eh? How'm I going to go about getting that with him dead?"
"If you'll give me your name and address and the amount, I'm sure the Dimola family will take care of that obligation," Toby said stiffly, "although it may take awhile."
"Francesca Volci," she snapped, and added the address and an improbably large sum. "And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? He cleaned me out of everything I had put aside."
Toby checked the impulse to say, "What you evidently have been doing all the tune." Although she made his flesh creep he felt sorry for the girl, from whom the flush and attractiveness of youth had long since fled as she had waited around for her erratic lover.
"All this information I've given out," she went on petulantly, "and my time—that doesn't come for nothing, you know. How about it?" With an inward sigh, Toby got out his wallet and took out two large-denomination bills. "This should take care of things for a while."
She took them but suddenly her eyes filled with tears and her face crumpled. "Oh, why did he have to go and die," she sobbed, "just when everything was going to be so nice!"
Father Antonio pressed Toby's arm. "I'll stay with her for a while," he said quietly. "You go on about your business, professore, I'll take care of this and I'll find my own way back. She really did care for him, you know."
Toby—who could not bear to see a woman cry—escaped thankfully, feeling a little guilty about leaving the priest saddled with the problem. Not a bad fellow, he reflected, and I would not have his job if it were the last one on earth.
During the drive back to Co
lle d'imola he put his newly acquired information in order and began to think about it. With this new insight the police should rapidly be able to pin down Lorenzo Dimola's entrance into the United States. But then what? In a strange country how would Lorenzo have got from New York to Cape Cod with limited funds? Toby doubted whether he'd have hired a car; it would have needed an international driver's license, which he did not think would be easily available to an ex-convict But the police could check that too.
He personally favored train or bus—no, there were no trains to the Cape. Bus then—to where? This would be harder to check—no names on bus tickets. And then what would Lorenzo do? Contact his father to say he had arrived and was on his way? But how? The Dimolas' phone was unlisted—something Lorenzo would not know about.
No, wait! He was making a basic mistake. He cursed himself for not asking one important question—the address on the letter—and almost turned the car around but, remembering the sad state of Francesca Volci, decided against it. Penny had said the whole family had been at Masuit only since Rinaldo's illness; chances were Diraola had written from the company's HQ in Boston—so Lorenzo would surely go there to enquire. And would be told precious little he was sure. So here he had Lorenzo wandering around Boston at a dead end and still unsure of his welcome. Toby sighed vexedly, he was getting nowhere, he must start from the other end.
The murderer had met Lorenzo and somehow had lured him to his doom. How? It could not have been by chance. What would Lorenzo have said to Rinaldo in that last-minute letter? Something like, "I will be arriving in New York from Rome, Sat. morning on flight number so-and-so? Hoping to be contacted?" So if it was that letter that had given Rinaldo his stroke, then somebody else in the household must have seen it, removed it; knew. What would they do? Easy. "Paging Mr. Lorenzo Dimola on flight number so-and so" or perhaps just a message left at the TWA desk. Toby felt a growing inward excitement. At least this was something tangible, a long-distance call from the household which could be checked on. And the murderer would then be calling the shots. "Take the bus (or whatever) to Hyaxmis and I will meet you there. Father is ill. Will pick you up and take you to him, but we must talk first..." Something like that. Then, on the lonely estate, the lulling of suspicion, the sudden blow—and exit Lorenzo.
Drawing up at the inn, he felt satisfied with this and hurried to put in a transatlantic call. Nobody knew where Penny was. Quietly cursing her unflagging energy, Toby got in touch with Detective Eldredge with whom, even at long distance, he had established a rapport. Barney Eldredge was a rare man, a man who knew how to listen, and when Toby had finished said, "Ee-yah, I think you've got a lot there, Professor, we'll get onto it right away. And not to worry about Dr. Spring. I've told her she need not bother herself further. We've got the case in hand now."
When Toby hung up the phone, he sat there frowning at it. Granted that the police dug up the corroboration for his theory, where did it get them? Not very far. It would get Lorenzo to the Masuit estate, it might even give them a shadowy idea as to the identity of the murderer, but how would they ever prove it?
He snorted gently to himself at Detective EJdredge's delusion that Penny was off the case. He knew full well that at this stage it would be like taking a catnip mouse away from an intoxicated cat. She'd be right there—probably one step ahead of them, but what could she do about proving it either?"
Suddenly he grew rigid, sat up, took his pipe out of his mouth and glared wildly at the phone. "My God!" he said, "I know exactly what she'll try and do. I've got to get over there before it's too late ..."
CHAPTER 20
"You realize I could get permanently canned for what you're asking me to do." Carson Grange made it a statement rather than a question.
"If I could think of any other way, or if you weren't so heavily involved already, I wouldn't even ask, but can you see any other solution?" Penny countered.
Carson was silent, but whether from reflection or exhaustion it was hard to tell; it seemed they had been arguing for hours. Ann had returned in the middle of the argument, and with monumental tact had removed herself and the children to McDonald's, leaving the arena clear for the two protagonists. "It may not even work and we would have stuck both our necks out for nothing," he said finally.
"Agreed. The murderer is wary now with all the police finally looking in this direction but must be feeling increasingly desperate too. Wanda's killing was a panic murder if ever I saw one. Luckily none of them know as yet how much we have turned up at the Italian end or how rapidly the net is closing. But the direct proof may never be forthcoming and they may get away scot-free if we can't jolt them into showing their hand. As I've already said, Rinaldo won't tell, Zeb can't, and, even if he could, probably wouldn't, as you well know. Who else is there to point the finger? I'm convinced Eagle Smith is telling the truth when he says he saw no one that day. With Wanda gone and the other business out in the open now, there is no reason he would lie about that, since it would let him definitely off the hook too. So what's left? It's useless to bring the police officially in on this; they'd never stand for it because, I suppose, it is a form of entrapment."
"A highly dangerous form of entrapment," Carson put in drily.
"Perhaps. And that's precisely why, if I am to be bait for the tiger, I'd like someone backing me up who has and can use a gun. I know it is asking you to take a big risk, but you know as well as I do that, unless we solve this case, there's going to be a cloud of suspicion surrounding you from now on, which can only harm you."
Me nodded gloomily. "Yes, I can see that all right. My ex-wife, who doesn't miss much, has already started to make noises about Bobby's custody again. So, O.K., suppose I do go along, what kind of a setup have you got in mind?"
Penny frowned. "There again I've got the general outline but not the details. It would have to be at night and at the Grange house. At night, because if you're going to be backup you'd never be able to get close enough to the house in the day to be of any help—there's just not enough near cover."
"Why couldn't I just hide inside?"
"Too risky. If I were the murderer, the first thing I'd do would be to check the rest of the house before going after me in the museum room—and there's nowhere in the room you could hide."
"Why has it to be there anyway?"
Penny ran her hands through her short, mouse-colored hair until it stood up in spikes. "Because, although it's a bit thin, it's the only story I can think up that the murderer might go for. Written evidence hidden there that I'll be searching for. I thought first of a message from Wanda, because no one did search the room again after her murder, but the murderer might know Wanda did not have much to tell, so I'll use Zeb; some nonsense about coming out of his coma and asking for me and then muttering about evidence hidden in one of the Indian pots."
Carson looked skeptical. "Surely no one would go for that! I mean, it's so corny."
Penny shrugged helplessly. "I know, but I've told you who I suspect and why, and, if they're as desperate as I think, they simply can't afford to take a chance on it. We can't just rush off and do this, the timing will have to be exactly right to look natural. I'll have to show up at the mansion all excited and self-important, blurt out the 'big news,' and take off for the house, hoping the murderer will rise to the bait."
"And your idea is for me to lurk about outside until somebody does follow you into the house, then wait a minute or two and follow—is that right?"
"Exactly."
"You'll be taking one hell of a risk—you know that?"
"I know, but I'm banking on a certain element of surprise and the murderer's vanity to keep things inactive until you get there." She grinned weakly at him. "Are you on?"
There was no answering smile on his face but, "I'm on," he agreed. "When?"
"Can you take a couple of days off? Either tomorrow or the day after. The day after that is the inquest on Wanda, which I could use as an excuse to go to the mansion with my 'big news.' "
&nbs
p; "Yes, I can get leave, but what'll I do with myself?" he grumbled.
This time her grin was impish. "Why don't you hang around here? You seem to like the company."
"I'm not going to have Ann dragged into this," he glowered at her, "she's had enough trouble."
"No, indeed!" Penny agreed with fervor, "it would be better if she didn't know a thing about it." SeeLog the evident relief on his face, she did not add what she was thinking: that Ann's ignorance would not be so much for her safety as for their own.
When she did make her assault on the Dimola family citadel she was fully expecting to find them a little at odds with one another. They were far from dimwitted, and the events of the last few days must have shown them that the finger of suspicion was now turned to someone in their own household. She expected to find them fearful and suspicious of one another—but she was quite unprepared to walk into a flaming family row, which almost took the wind out of her sails and spoiled her carefully prepared act. The irony lay in that the row had nothing to do with the case at ail.
She had gone into her act the moment the fortresslike door had opened, brushing past the startled manservant and demanding excitedly to see Alexander "with important news." Hearing loud voices from the direction of the drawing room she had barged on, leaving the man spluttering feebly in the rear, and burst in on a dramatic scene. Maria, her color flaring, her eyes flashing, was standing embattled in front of the fireplace, an unknown and solemn young man by her side, who in turn was flanked by a tense-faced Annette. Ranged like an opposing force opposite to them were Alexander, Steven and Inga, all looking furious. They were all talking at once, but stopped in mid-sentence to wheel in unison on her intrusion. Penny, inwardly more than a little nonplussed, felt it was too late to withdraw, so plunged on with the act. "Mr. Dimola, I'm sorry to barge in on you like this, but I have most important news..." she began, but was not allowed to finish.
"Dr. Spring," Maria burst out, "I appeal to you as one who has seen my father! Would you not say that he would rather risk death than continue as he is?"
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