by Jill Downie
Bianchi sat down alongside Reginald Hamelin, and looked across the desk at Moretti.
“We can speak Italian, if you prefer, Signor Bianchi.”
“English is fine. I’ll tell you if not. Better for Signor Hamelin.”
“Very well. Signor Bianchi, I want to ask you first about your father.”
“My father?”
Mario Bianchi was clearly not expecting Moretti’s opening line of questioning and, from the look on his lawyer’s face, neither was he. “I thought you’d want to re-check my alibis, that kind of thing.”
“Not much point to that, sir, since most people at the time of both deaths were asleep. You are far from the only one without an alibi. For the moment, I’d like to explore other areas of investigation with you.”
“How can my father have anything to do with these deaths?” Mario Bianchi’s hands went up to the open collar of his shirt with a gesture Moretti recalled from their first meeting.
“I don’t know if he has anything to do with it. Yet. Your father was a prominent member of the fascist party before and during the war, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, but he was an intellectual. A writer, a journalist. He didn’t go around bullying, torturing, and killing people, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“I was not. But his writing may have made others do so — the pen being quite as powerful as the sword. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Of course I do, as a writer myself. It is difficult for us now to understand the forces that drove men like my father to support fascism — there was much political corruption in Italy, and a real fear of the spread of communism in Europe. Many who supported Mussolini in the early days quickly became disillusioned when he joined forces with Hitler. Although my father died when I was very young and I don’t really remember him, I don’t intend to sit here and revile him. Especially since I don’t see what this has to do with the deaths of Toni and Gilbert Ensor over three decades later.”
Mario Bianchi’s hand dropped from his collar on to his lap, and Moretti saw that the unexpected direction of his questions was having the effect he hoped for. In spite of his emotional support of his father, the director’s body settled more easily into the chair, his spine relaxing against the high padded back.
“Am I right in thinking he spent much of the war in and around Siena?”
“You’ve done your homework, Inspector. Yes, it was safer than Rome, particularly after the fall of Mussolini.”
“You must have been fascinated by the plot of Rastrellamento, with your family background. Did you approach Monty Lord, or did he approach you?”
“He came to me. I’d just gone through a — a bit of a lull. It was a godsend, not just a make-work project. I now have a two-year-old son, a family. I’d have taken almost anything, but this was wonderful.”
“You say you met Toni Albarosa while on holiday in Venice, and that he was the first member of the Vannoni-Albarosa family whom you met. I’m presuming you already had been approached by Monty Lord about Rastrellamento — am I right? Did you suggest filming in Guernsey? I was under the impression it had been arranged between Monty Lord and the marchese.”
“Yes. The preliminary groundwork had been done, but Toni did much to smooth the way for us.”
“That surprises me. I got the impression the marchese was not enamoured of his son-in-law.”
Mario Bianchi laughed. “Paolo wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t anxious for him to find some sort of job with us. Appointing Toni as location manager did much to win over the marchesa to our invasion of her home, of that I’m sure. Besides, you’d have to have met Toni to know just how charming he was — it really was difficult to dislike him.”
“So he could charm his way around most obstacles, get people to give way and agree to various requests. That must have made him very useful as a location manager.”
“It did indeed. I said to you when I first met you that he opened doors for us, and that was literally true.”
“But isn’t it true that, just before his death, he had tried to get permission for a location that the family vetoed?” Let’s give it a shot, thought Moretti, see if it’s game over. Basta, and a tap on the side of the nose. But Mario Bianchi only looked surprised.
“You heard about that? See, I don’t know if the family vetoed the request, or even if Toni lived long enough to make it.”
“From the information we have, he and the marchesa had a falling-out about a location on the night of his death.”
“Really?” Mario Bianchi’s surprise seemed genuine. “That’s news to me, and the marchesa has never said anything about it.”
“I presume you had needed another location — where, and for what?”
“It was for a crucial scene I had not planned to shoot until toward the end of our schedule — a flashback. We needed a broken-down church in a much wilder location than the island could offer us, and preferably on a hill. I wanted ruins, if possible, that I could use in the exterior shots. Toni became quite excited, said he knew just the place, but he would have to check with the Vannonis. Apparently it was some place his wife had mentioned, many years ago.”
“Near Florence, or Fiesole?”
“No, much farther south, and closer to the coast.”
“Was he more specific than that?”
“Well yes, and then I became quite excited, because it was close to Siena and I know the area well. He said it was a small village, now deserted, between Siena and Grosseto. There were the remains of a church, he said, because his wife had mentioned an abandoned church.”
“Did he say anything about a house?”
“Not specifically, but he said there were ruins.”
“Are you pursuing the location?”
“It’s been put on hold for the time being. We may have to compromise with the setting, because all this has lost us valuable time.”
The directions the questions were now taking had made Mario Bianchi return to his nervous tics, and Moretti saw that his forehead glistened with sweat. The inconsistency was puzzling — surely he had just said he was excited by the proximity to Siena? Why was he disturbed all of a sudden? Was he lying about the reasons for dropping the location?
“Time is valuable, you say, Signor Bianchi. Haven’t the numerous changes to the script and the recent addition of an extra character also lost you valuable time?”
Mario Bianchi’s head jerked forward, a curtain of hair concealing his expression. For the first time in the interview, Reginald Hamelin intervened.
“These are artistic matters, aren’t they? Surely Mr. Bianchi does not have to justify himself for adapting a book for the screen?” The lawyer laughed lightly, dismissively, as if to dissipate his client’s obvious tension.
“It could be useful,” Moretti replied. “One of the lines of inquiry we are working on is that there is some connection between the political aspects of the script and the murders. Why, Signor Bianchi, have you and Mr. Lord had a disagreement? Is it about the character of the schoolmaster? And why cast a Slovak in the role?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, who said I had any disagreement with Monty?” Mario Bianchi’s hysteria bubbled close beneath the surface. “There is stress, yes, because of the money. One of our investors is a bank, and banks don’t like murders in what for them was a speculative undertaking in the first place. I should have thought it was obvious why we have cast Tibor — box office, Inspector, box office. We are lucky he is available.”
Mario Bianchi broke off abruptly and turned to Reginald Hamelin. “I’ve had enough of this. They are waiting for me on the terrace. I can’t sit here any longer.”
Moretti stood up, followed by Liz Falla, taking the initiative from lawyer and client. “Thank you, Signor Bianchi, for your time. We may of course have to speak to you again.”
Reginald Hamelin extended his hand to Moretti. “We will make ourselves available,” he said magisterially, affirming his presence in any interrogation.
Mo
retti and his partner had just reached the door when Mario Bianchi called after them. “A proposito, Inspector — Tibor Stanjo is not a Slovak. Common mistake. He has lived in Italy since he was a small child. Came when his father had to come — like you and your father here, no? He is a Slovene.”
Outside the manor there were sounds of activity from the direction of the terrace.
“Between Siena and Grosseto,” said Moretti. If he’d been a police dog instead of a policeman, he’d have been whimpering with excitement and pulling on his lead. “Whatever it was happened there. Between Siena and Grosseto. And the schoolmaster becomes even more interesting as a Slovene, rather than a Slovak.”
“I have to say, Guv,” admitted his partner, “I get all confused with those parts of the world. Slovene, Slovak — I’d have thought they were the same. Why more interesting?”
“Because there was a forced evacuation of Slovenes before the onset of the war. I remember my father talking about it — many were transferred to Italy against their will. I thought they were mostly put in northern towns, like Parma and Milan, but a schoolmaster might well have to move farther south, to a more remote region, to find employment. I’m sure this schoolmaster is not in Rastrellamento on some idle whim. He’s there for a reason.”
“Bianchi says the reason is money, the investors.”
“Box office? Think about it, Falla. It doesn’t really hold water. You don’t have to be an expert to know the big money to be made with this film is in North America, where you can be certain they’ve never heard of Tibor Stanjo.”
They were now in the courtyard near where most of the trailers were parked. Betty Chesler and her assistant, Eddie Christy, were making their way across the yard chattering away nineteen to the dozen, carrying between them a large box of German helmets. When she saw the two policemen Betty Chesler twisted around to speak to them, leaving most of the weight in the hands of her punier colleague. With a plaintive cry, he staggered and lowered it awkwardly to the ground.
“Sorry, Eddie, love, but I wanted to have a word — I’m so glad I saw you. I was about to call the police station, actually.”
“More trouble at the lodge?” Moretti asked.
“No, thank God. But I wanted to have a word with you.” She looked around her, and at her assistant. “I’d — rather not talk here.”
“Tell you what,” said Liz Falla in her firm, take-control voice, “I’ll give you a hand with those, shall I?” She hoisted up one end of the container with impressive ease. Eddie Christy took the other side, and together they walked off in the direction of the terrace.
Betty Chesler waited until they were out of earshot and turned back to Moretti. “It’s about Sydney Tremaine. We can talk in Clifford’s trailer, I’ve got a master key. He left this morning.”
Clifford Wesley’s trailer was still showing signs of its former occupant and Betty Chesler tut-tutted as they went in. “Dear me, what a pigsty. I do apologize. But he was such a nice young man. I just hope stardom doesn’t spoil him.”
“You think Rastrellamento will make him a star?”
“Oh I think so. I’ve seen so many get started, and you get to know what to look for. That seriousness and those glasses might make you think otherwise, but on camera he’s just gorgeous — oh, he made me cry buckets yesterday when he died. In the film, I mean. The way things have been around here you’ve got to say that, haven’t you?” Betty Chesler gave a little shudder.
“You wanted to talk to me about Ms. Tremaine.”
“Yes.” Betty Chesler sat down and Moretti took a seat opposite her. With great earnestness she leaned forward and patted his knee. “Now, dear, I know you’re a police officer — well, a detective — but I’m going to be quite straightforward.”
Nonplussed, Moretti replied, “I hope you will, Ms. Chesler. It’ll make a pleasant change.”
“Very well. I know from what Sydney has said that she’s taken a shine to you.”
“A — shine?” Moretti stared at Betty Chesler’s solemn face.
“You’ve been so kind to her. She’s not used to the man in her life being kind to her.” She was now giving him a stern but motherly look.
“Now, Ms. Chesler — I don’t know what Ms. Tremaine has said to you, but I am far from being the man in her life,” responded a now dismayed Moretti.
“She told me you’re a real gentleman — even gave up your bed to her, and never laid a finger on her. She’s not used to that. Don’t worry — Sydney and I have known each other a long time, from the Pavlova film. She’s not told anyone else, with one possible exception, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Or who, rather.”
“Giulia Vannoni.”
“You know! Oh, I’m so worried about her friendship with that woman! Sydney can be so naive about life — dancers are often like that. They live in a cocoon, you see, from about the age of ten, and they go from barre to the ballet to bed at night and that’s it. Sydney seems to have complete confidence in her, and in my opinion she’s just as likely to have been the culprit as anyone. Those muscles! Have you seen the key Sydney’s wearing around her neck?”
“I have. Is it the key to the tower on Icart point?”
“If you mean what she calls Giulia Vannoni’s castello, yes. She says it’s where she’ll be safe and I’m to tell no one. It could be a trap. It could mean her death!”
Betty Chesler’s emotional style was reminiscent of early silent films, all clasped hands and tortured looks, but her anxiety was clearly genuine.
“Has Ms. Tremaine told you anything about their conversations? Anything at all that might be useful to our inquiries?”
“I don’t know if it’s useful or not, but she told me that Giulia thinks the murders have something to do with some old family secret. It all sounded highly unlikely to me.”
“Was she more specific about the secret?”
“Something to do with how she was close to the marchesa, but how just once she had been frightened of her. She asked the marchesa about a sister of her grandfather’s she found out about, and the marchesa threatened to throw her out of the business, so she said. It all seemed a bit farfetched to me — to think that it would have anything to do with the murders. That woman can turn nasty at the drop of a hat. I’ve seen it.”
“A sister,” said Moretti. “She didn’t by any chance give her a name, this sister?”
“Yes, she did, and I remember it because of that old folk song.” Betty Chesler broke suddenly and unexpectedly into song in a melodious voice, heavy with vibrato. “Who is Sylvia? What is she, that all our swains commend her?” She beamed at Moretti. “Not bad, eh? I used to sing with a dance band when I was young. Best days of my life, they were.”
“So,” Moretti confirmed, “the name was Sylvia?”
“I’m sure of it. My main concern is for Sydney’s safety, so I’ve no scruples whatsoever about sharing her confidences with you.”
“You saw her this morning?”
“Yes, at the hotel. She said she was coming here.”
“Did she? She told me she never wanted to come near this place again.”
“I could understand that, but she wanted to have something to do, and I said she could help me. De mortuis and all that, Detective Inspector, but she’s better off without Gilbert Ensor. I’ve been talking to her about getting on with her life.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Anything more? I’ve got to find Monty Lord, if I can.”
“That’s about it. Monty’s in the manor, because they’re shooting on the terrace today. You should be able to catch him when they break for lunch.”
Together they walked back to the lodge, where Liz Falla was waiting for him. Moretti watched Betty Chesler disappear up the steps and into the lodge, closing the door behind her.
“Anything useful, Guv?”
“I think so, but I’ll tell you later. I don’t want to talk about it here. Let’s go back to the manor. We’ll wait for Mr. Lord in the foyer.”
So
mehow, the end of summer seemed more palpable in the Manoir Ste. Madeleine. The air was cooler, almost damp, and the once light-filled interior was now shadowed and dim. The entrance hall was deserted, and Moretti and Liz Falla were just sitting down on a pair of high-backed mahogany chairs when Bella Alfieri came down the stairs. She was wearing the same severe suit, and her swept-up hairstyle gave her a retro fifties look.
“Can I help you?”
“Perhaps you can, Signora,” said Moretti. “We are waiting to speak to Mr. Lord. Is he on the set? We understood they were shooting here today.”
“They are, but Signor Lord has left the set now. He is doing some paperwork in his bedroom upstairs. He didn’t return to the trailer, because they all break soon for lunch.”
“Could you show us the way?”
Bella Alfieri looked doubtful. “We are not supposed to disturb him, Detective Inspector.”
“Signora Alfieri, this is a murder investigation.”
“This way.”
With an alacrity that took both officers by surprise, Bella Alfieri turned and made her way back up the stairs into a second floor hallway that overlooked the ground floor. Monty Lord’s room was right at the top of the stairs. Bella Alfieri knocked and an irritated voice replied, “Chi è?” The tiny interpreter turned to them, and smiled, lovingly.
“He speaks beautiful Italian, you know. Not a trace of an accent. And, by the way, it’s ‘signorina,’ and not ‘signora.’” She called through the door. “Monty, it’s Bella. The two detectives are here to speak with you.”
From inside the room came the sound of papers rustling and drawers and cupboards opening and closing. Then Monty Lord called out, “Come in, come in.”
The producer’s bedroom was sizeable, with plenty of space for an elaborately carved desk that was either Renaissance, or a very fine copy of a Renaissance piece. No utilitarian steel and aluminum construction for this piece of furniture, unlike the desk in his trailer, and Moretti was again struck by the marked difference between the servant quarters and the rest of the manor.
