Intrigue in Capri

by Ashley Weaver

  As luck would have it, he appeared to be preparing to follow Signorina Bianchi and her companion, who had walked almost out of sight. He wasn’t paying any attention to me, and I ran directly into him as he stepped onto the path.

  He steadied me, mumbling a distracted apology.

  “Mi scusi,” I said, but he was already moving past me.

  “Come along, darling,” Milo said, arriving at my side. He took my arm and began to steer me away from the garden.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, looking over my shoulder at the man. “I don’t want to leave. We need to see what that man is going to do.”

  “No, we do not,” he replied. “We’re going back to the villa, and you’re going to forget all about this.”

  I stopped in my tracks, forcing Milo to stop with me. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He looked down at me, irritation and amusement warring on his features. “I think I was perfectly clear.”

  “But, Milo . . .”

  “We can’t keep following them all day. What do you mean to do if they go to the Blue Grotto next, paddle around surreptitiously after them? I might remind you that my sport at Oxford was polo, not rowing.”

  It was true that we were bound to be noticed if we continued to follow the couple, but I felt that I needed to warn them about the gentleman who was watching them.

  Milo was fairly pulling me along, however, and he didn’t seem inclined to listen to reason. I would have to find a way to warn Rosalia Bianchi tonight. Hopefully, she would choose to dine in her hotel again.

  That meant I would have to find a way to evade Milo this evening, for he seemed to have made up his mind that we should no longer involve ourselves in the matter.

  That was why I didn’t tell him what I had discovered when I bumped into the man behind the bush.

  He was wearing a gun beneath his jacket.

  * * *

  I fretted throughout the afternoon about how I would manage to rid myself of Milo for the evening, but, in the end, he presented me with a solution himself. A recent acquaintance had invited him to an evening of gambling, and, as Milo never turned down the opportunity to try his luck, he had accepted the invitation readily. I was very much relieved that I would not have to think of some plausible excuse to leave the villa without him.

  “What are you going to do tonight, darling?” he asked as he prepared to depart.

  “I’ll probably have a quiet evening and do some reading,” I said. It was not entirely a lie. Once I had seen Rosalia Bianchi and warned her that she was being followed by an armed man, I would return to the villa and spend the rest of the evening comfortably ensconced in bed with a novel.

  He looked at me a bit warily. “Amory, you don’t mean to get yourself into any sort of trouble, do you?”

  I gave him my best expression of absolute innocence. “Of course not.”

  He did not appear entirely convinced, but nor did he argue the point. It seemed the lure of the baccarat table was strong enough that he was going to put his reservations on my sincerity aside.

  “Do try to behave yourself,” he said, coming to me and sliding his arms around my waist.

  “I might say the same to you,” I replied, smoothing out his lapels. As ever, he looked dashing in his evening clothes, and I knew that I would not be the only woman admiring him this evening.

  “I won’t be too late,” he promised. He kissed me deeply and then took his leave.

  I waited several moments, just to be sure he wasn’t going to come back for anything. Then I grabbed my wrap and slipped out of the villa into the moonlit night.

  * * *

  As I made my way back to the hotel restaurant, I began to have misgivings. A missing opera star was one thing, but a man with a gun was another entirely. It was foolish, perhaps even dangerous, to involve myself in the matter. However, I could not in good conscience allow a woman to be potentially harmed.

  It occurred to me that I might notify the police, but what would I tell them? I had no proof of any wrongdoing. No, if something were to be done, it was up to me. I told myself all would be well, for I didn’t intend to become immersed in any sort of conflict. I would simply tell Rosalia Bianchi what I knew and be done with the whole affair.

  It was possible, of course, that I wouldn’t even see her. She might have dinner in her room or at another restaurant entirely. Perhaps the matter had been resolved this afternoon with her garden companion, and there was nothing else to worry about. Somehow, however, I doubted it.

  I walked into the restaurant and spotted her at once. She was seated at the table where we had seen her last night. I wondered if she had arranged to give her companion the pearls this afternoon or if she still had them in her room. It was then I noticed the small valise by her feet, half hidden beneath the tablecloth. It was certainly unusual to bring a valise to dinner, so I could only surmise that the pearls were there. What did she mean to do with them?

  I was shown to a table and absently ordered something to eat. My mind was not on food, and I didn’t think I could eat a mouthful in this high state of nervous anticipation.

  I cast my eyes around the dining room, looking for the suspicious man who had been hiding in the gardens this afternoon. I felt a sense of relief when I did not see him, but it was short lived. A moment later, I spotted him standing in the entrance to the room. He was dressed in evening clothes, but they did nothing to alleviate the harshness of his features. His dark eyes moved restlessly around the room, but every so often they would alight on Rosalia Bianchi. He looked very much like some sort of animal stalking its prey.

  I felt a little chill. I needed to warn her, and it seemed that there was no other way to do it than to approach her and tell her what I had noticed.

  Just as I was prepared to rise from the table to make my way to her, the gentleman who had met her in the gardens came up to her table. He slid into the seat across from her. She leaned forward, speaking animatedly, and I noticed how his measured response seemed to calm her.

  My waiter came just then, and I took a chance. “Do you know that gentleman there?” I asked, nodding toward Signorina Bianchi’s table. “He seems familiar to me.”

  He smiled. “Yes, signora. That is Marco Rosetti. He’s a very famous composer.”

  He was amused that I did not recognize the man, and it was very difficult for me to not point out that he had not recognized Rosalia Bianchi.

  “Does he live here in Capri?”

  “Yes, signora. He has a grand villa.”

  “And is that his wife?” I asked casually.

  “No. Signora Rosetti is redhaired woman,” he said, his brows raised ever so slightly.

  “I see.”

  The waiter left, and I contemplated this newest bit of news. Rosetti was the pseudonym Rosalia Bianchi had given to Milo when they danced. Why had she used that name? Though Milo and I had both assumed Rosalia Bianchi and her gentleman friend were not lovers, perhaps we had been mistaken. Perhaps she and Signor Rosetti had met in the music world and fallen in love. Perhaps she had been afraid to face Carmine De Luca, and so she had taken the pearls and come to Capri to start a new life with Signor Rosetti. The fact that he was married would explain why they could not meet at his villa.

  I looked back to the table just as he reached down and took the valise. Then he stood and walked out of the room.

  I glanced over to the doorway, but the man who had been following them had disappeared. I quickly scanned the room, but he was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone?

  Turning back toward Rosalia Bianchi, I saw that she had risen and was walking toward the doors leading out onto the terrace. I only caught a glimpse of her profile, but I was fairly certain that she was crying.

  For a moment, I hesitated. Should I attempt to follow Marco Rosetti and the valise, or try to speak to Signorina Bianchi—or should I forget the whole matter? I was certain that the man with the gun was still lurking somewhere about, and in the end, this was what swayed me.
Rosalia Bianchi might be in danger, and I needed to warn her at the very least.

  I got up from the table and walked quickly out onto the terrace. The evening air was cool, and I could hear the gentle crash of the waves on the beach below. To my surprise, the terrace was mostly deserted. I looked around for Rosalia Bianchi. It was very dark, for clouds had momentarily obscured the moon, and I might have missed her, seated at the end, had I not heard her sigh softly.

  I pulled my wrap a little more tightly around myself and walked in her direction.

  She wasn’t looking at me when I reached her, and it wasn’t until I spoke that she looked in my direction.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  She looked up at me. Even distraught, she was lovely. The tears welled in her eyes, which were dark and luminous. She looked as though she had somehow perfected the art of weeping, and for a ridiculous moment I wondered what her secret was. I always looked perfectly ghastly after crying.

  Though I was less than confident in my Italian, I continued in that language. “I don’t mean to intrude,” I said, “but I wonder if I might speak with you. It’s rather urgent.”

  She brushed the tears away and with them any trace of sadness. “Yes, what is it?” she answered in English, no doubt to facilitate less halting communication on my part.

  I thought it was probably best to be direct under the circumstances. “I think you might be in danger,” I said.

  “Danger?” she repeated, her expression wary.

  “Yes. You see, I know who you are,” I said. Even as I spoke the words, I realized how melodramatic this conversation was becoming.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said with such confidence that for a moment I almost doubted myself.

  “You’re Rosalia Bianchi,” I said. “I wanted to tell you that you’re being followed.”

  A slight frown flickered across her brow. “Followed? By whom?”

  “I don’t know. A dark-haired gentleman with a surly countenance. He was following you in the Giardini di Augusto this afternoon.”

  “How do you know this?” she asked.

  “My husband and I were walking there,” I said, thinking it was probably not a good time to admit I had been following her as well. “I bumped into him, and I . . . I think he has a gun.”

  She looked suddenly less confident than she had a moment before. “This is very bad,” she muttered, almost to herself.

  “I saw your friend took the valise, and I thought that I should warn you.”

  She rose from her seat, clasping her hands together. “I was afraid something like this would happen,” she muttered to herself in Italian. “He must have been hired by Carmine.”

  So she had indeed taken the pearls from her fiancé.

  “Is there anything I can do?” I asked. “If it’s just a matter of having taken the pearls, you can always give them back. I’m sure he won’t press charges if you explain.”

  She looked at me and then, suddenly, a smile broke out on her face. She laughed, a bright, joyous sound that completely obliterated the worry on her expression a moment before. “I think you have misunderstood the situation,” she said.

  “In what way?” I asked.

  Before she could answer, there was a movement in the shadows. The suspicious man from the garden had appeared as if from nowhere. We had been so deep in conversation that we had not seen him come out onto the terrace.

  I felt a little wave of unease as he stepped toward us.

  “Signorina Bianchi, I want to have a word with you,” he said in Italian, ignoring me entirely. His tone was perfectly pleasant, but I had no doubt that the gun was still there beneath his jacket.

  “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else,” she said in that same cool, convincing tone she had used on me. Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

  “We both know I haven’t,” he replied.

  “I do not care to speak with you,” she said, her chin rising.

  This did not deter him in the least. He stepped closer, and I began to feel the first hint of genuine alarm. In retrospect, it had been rather foolhardy to have followed her out onto this darkened terrace.

  “Please leave us at once,” she said in an imperious tone I imagined must be part of her operatic repertoire.

  “I think you will be interested in what I have to say,” he said, undaunted by her hauteur.

  “Who are you?” she demanded.

  “I am a private investigator. I have been paid to find you,” he said. “However, I can easily forget if the price is right. For the cost of one of those famous pearls, you will not see me again.”

  She let out an exasperated breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He stepped closer still. “Perhaps you need time to reconsider. Perhaps I can convince you. . . .”

  There was something in his tone that I did not like, and I wondered if I would be forced to attempt something drastic. He was a fairly large man, but even the largest of men could be toppled under the right circumstances.

  “Perhaps you should reconsider before getting any closer to the ladies.” The words came out from the darkness. It was Milo’s voice, and yet there was a hard note in it to which I was not accustomed.

  The man turned as Milo materialized from out of the shadows. Things were reaching a crescendo. Really, the entire scene was unfolding very much like the climax of some Wagnerian opera. The only way the moment could be theatrically improved upon would be if we all burst into song.

  “This is none of your concern,” the man told Milo.

  “My wife is very much my concern,” Milo replied.

  “He has a gun, Milo,” I said, my voice sounding much calmer than I felt.

  The man turned to me, his expression more annoyed than threatening. “I have no such thing,” he said in English.

  “I felt it under your coat when I bumped into you today,” I said.

  “That is my camera,” he said scathingly. “I have taken pictures of Signorina Bianchi. Pictures that will prove her whereabouts.”

  For some inexplicable reason, I felt vaguely disappointed. This revelation was something of an anticlimax.

  The man turned to Rosalia Bianchi, his expression dark. “Since you do not wish to cooperate, I will be forced to give them to De Luca,” he said angrily.

  With that, he stormed from the balcony.

  I turned to Milo. Despite his perfect composure, I knew he was going to have a few things to say to me about what had occurred tonight. Now was not the time for that particular discussion, however.

  “I know you’re angry, dearest,” I said quickly, “but let’s finish speaking with Signorina Bianchi before our quarrel, shall we?”

  I turned back to her and found that she was watching our exchange with an amused expression.

  “I thank you for your assistance, signor,” she said. “That man was proving most annoying.”

  “Do you think he is gone for good?” I asked.

  “I’m going to make sure,” Milo said. He turned and left the terrace.

  “Your husband is a very dashing man,” Rosalia Bianchi observed.

  “Yes,” I said. “He’ll make sure that man doesn’t trouble us again.”

  “I’m afraid it is all in vain, however,” she said with a sigh. “Now that that man has the photographs, everything is ruined.”

  Despite all that had just occurred, I still did not have a clear picture of what was happening.

  “Why are you hiding from Signor De Luca?” I ventured to ask.

  “Please, come sit with me and I will tell you,” she said, leading me to a stone bench in the corner. I took a seat beside her. She looked out at the sea for a moment, as though trying to decide how best to begin her cadenza.

  When she spoke she started at the beginning. “I developed a musical talent at a very young age. I always knew, somehow, that I was destined to do something great. But it wasn’t just a matter of being able to sing. My voice was only part of it, the
tool that made the music come alive. The music itself was a part of me, as though I could feel it coursing through my blood. I learned to play several instruments and began to write my own songs. It was my voice, however, that brought me fame.”

  It had indeed, though I could not imagine that this current situation was the type of fame she had been seeking.

  “Carmine De Luca became my manager when I was still a girl,” she went on. “He advanced my career, it is true, but he also began to control me. He wanted to tell me who to see, what to wear, how to behave. As a child, I obeyed, but now I am a woman and do not enjoy being told such things.”

  “No,” I said. “I can imagine not.”

  “We had a great many arguments over the years, but I accepted his interference in my life because I thought he was trying to help me. It wasn’t until recently that he revealed himself for what he truly was.”

  I was very interested in where this story might be going. Winnelda had told me that Rosalia Bianchi and Carmine De Luca had had a secret romance, but it did not seem that was where the story was leading.

  “It was my fault, I suppose,” she said. “I made the mistake of telling him about my opera.”

  “Your opera?” I repeated. “Do you mean Tosca?”

  “No,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I mean my own opera. L’uccello Canoro, The Songbird. I’ve composed it. It was the work of several years, and I put everything into it. I finished it perhaps a month ago and showed it to Carmine. He told me he didn’t think it was very good. I knew, of course, that he was not telling me the truth. It is a magnificent opera. If there is anything I know, it is music.”

  Suddenly everything was beginning to make sense.

  “It wasn’t the pearls in your valise,” I said. “It was the opera.”

  She nodded. “I had only the original that I had written by hand and I did not want it to be lost, so I let Carmine copy it. But then I began to worry what his ambition might lead him to do with it.”

  “You thought he might try to claim it as his own,” I said, the picture becoming clearer by the moment.