The Penny Ferry - Rick Boyer (9 page)

"Well," she said, brushing crumbs off her
hands, "it's Sunday, and like a good European I don't do
business on Sundays, so what is it, please?"

Joe explained to her about the death of the messenger
who had transported a piece for her exhibit. She was shocked and
subdued at the news.

"Oh, I am truly sorry. The poor man. And he was
so nice! He let me pet his big beautiful Alsatian dogs. I hope they
are all right . . ."

"They were killed too, ma'am. It was a gas bomb.
They were all killed instantly. Because of the nature of the killing
we're investigating all possible motives. You say the cup is safe
back in the museum?"

"Yes."

"And why was it taken out in the first place?"

"We took some pictures with it here in the hotel
suite for a newspaper. The
World
,
I think."

"The
Globe
?"

"Ah yes, the
Globe
.
This man, he was a black man, sort of old with gold glasses, yes?
Well, he brought the cup and then took it back. It is quite
priceless. It was made by Baccio Bandinelli in Florence in fifteen
thirty. But it is the legend surrounding Romeo's Chalice that makes
it especially valuable, even though the legend is false. Supposedly
it was the chalice used at the wedding mass by Romeo and Juliet. So
it is still called that— Romeo's Chalice."

"And it is really pure gold?" asked Joe.

"Yes. Gold inlaid with silver and black onyx. It
is a prize one might kill for, but as I told you the killing was
quite unnecessary, since the cup was safely delivered by this man and
his messenger service. Is this all now, please?"

"Uh, almost, Ms. Fabrianni. We just want to know
if, when you met Mr. Robinson last Friday, anything seemed unusual.
Did he seem nervous? Did he say anything unusual?"

"Well," she replied impatiently, "since
I have no idea what his usual was, how could I tell if there was
anything unusual, you see?"

"Yes, I understand. Well thank you, Ms.
Fabrianni." He looked wearily at me. "That seems to clear
this end up, eh Doc?"

I shrugged and nodded at the same time. Who knew?

Lucia rose from the table to say good-bye and return
to her suite. Joe had his wallet out but she waved him off, saying
she would have it put on her bill and charged as a business expense
to her father's corporation. She said this as if she were used to
doing it for many things.

"Uh, if anything further develops, we'll be in
touch with you," said Joe.

"Oh. Why would there be any need for that?"
she asked.

"Well I don't know. just in case."

"Mr. Brindelli, I have been most cooperative, I
think. Have I not?"

"Oh yes. We thank you,"

"Well then, I see no reason to continue the
matter any further, though I think it was unfortunate that the poor
man was killed. Yes?"

She was lighting a Marlboro with a purple-and-gold
lighter that had a tortoise-shell texture. It definitely wasn't a
Bic. Probably cost a grand. Again l saw the watch on her elegant
wrist and involuntarily shuddered.

As Joe stammered for an explanation we both saw the
spoiled princess emerge from beneath the regal courtesy. Her
irritation and impatience were less the product of a Latin temper or
a nasty nature than the natural outgrowth of a centuries-old
aristocratic view of life, in which the European wealthy were used to
commanding obsequious armies of attendants, purveyors, merchants,
chefs, valets, and chauffeurs at their beck and call. Sometimes
America was a rude shock for them.

"I think his death had nothing to do with his
errand for us," suggested Lucia.

"
Plausible," said Joe, "except that
Johnny wasn't the only one—"

"Uh, Joe," I said quickly, "let's talk
briefly with Mr. Fabrianni before we go, okay? And also, Ms.
Fabrianni, we really appreciate your help . . . I was just wondering
if you could provide us with a quick rundown of the members of your
party? Do you have any pictures we could look at?"

She balked a bit at this, but relented, and we
returned to the Fabrianni suite where we met Paolo, infirm with old
age and diabetes, and looked at many photographs in big albums. The
watch Lucia Fabrianni was wearing had me on edge. Like the one on the
wrist of the elegant young corpse in the old chimney, it was a
Bulgari. We looked all through the photo albums, which were full of
pictures of the art objects as well as the tour personnel. In none of
the pictures could we spot a man who looked like the dead man. But
Lucia explained that not all of the tour people were in the
photographs; several of the younger assistants had not been around
when the pictures were taken.

"Is everybody here now?" Joe asked Lucia.

"
No. Several are away sightseeing this weekend.
Two of them, I think Enzo and Michael, went down to New York on the
airplane to see relatives—"

"They left Friday?"

"
Yes. Friday afternoon," she answered after
some thought. Joe was leaning over toward her, his attention held
totally by what she was saying. Why was he so engrossed? Then I
realized he was staring down at the lighter. He was studying it as
one might study a moon rock or the remains of a meteorite.

"And you have no pictures of either of them we
could take a look at?" he finally asked her.

"No, I don't think so. Why? Are they accused of
anything?"

"No. Uh, would you call me, please, at this
number if either one of them fails to turn up when you expect?
Thanks."

We rose to go and she opened the side door, revealing
another parlor, and her aged father sitting in his wheelchair in
front of a table with playing cards on it. Joe thanked her in
Italian. She brightened up and answered him back.

"Mr. Brindelli, Dr. Adams, you must come for
dinner soon. We will have a big banquet before we leave. Mr.
Brindelli, you are the brother to Mrs. Adams?"

"Afraid so."

"Ah, and what village did you come from?"

"Oh, a little place south of Naples, like most
of us who came to America."

"I see . . . interesting. And what is the name
of the village?"

"San Mango d'Aquino, in Calabria."

"Oh yes," she said distantly, "I've
heard of it, I think. It's very poor down there, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Joe.

* * *

We left the suite and walked down the hall toward the
elevators. "Notice the watch, Joe? Another Bulgari. Don't you
think that's more than coincidental?"

"Yep," he said.

"What chance is there that the guy in the
chimney was one of the Fabrianni party?"

"Some."

"And if he is, er, was, then what in God's name
does it all mean?"

He shrugged his shoulders and kept walking. Joe
wasn't saying much. But I knew what was bothering him.

Joe looked down at the patterned carpet as we walked.
He didn't say anything. He scowled.

"
That
norte
bitch," he said finally.

"Don't let it get to you," I said. "She
doesn't know anything else. Like a lot of rich people she's both
worldly and ignorant at the same time."

" '
It's vevy poor dawn
there, isn't it?
' " said Joe, mocking
her. "Well goddamn right it's poor down there; why the hell you
think we all came over here?"

We got into the elevator and rode down alone. We
didn't say anything. In the lobby we paused near the old gilded clock
as if unsure of what to do next. Then we drifted along the corridor
to the library bar. We sat in two leather chairs and gazed absently
at the bookshelves and paintings. A waitress came by and we waved her
off. I sighed and Joe rested his cheeks in his palms.

"Did you see that Orsini lighter?" he
asked.

"
Uh-huh."

"Jeez. Must've cost a mint. 'Course, she's
probably got one of them for every day of the week and two for
Sundays."

"Uh-huh."

Joe popped a Benson & Hedges into his mouth and
lit it with a paper match. He dropped. the matchbook on the table
between us. On its cover it said in bold letters EARN BIG $$$$$$!

"I hate those
nortes
,"
he said. "They really think their shit doesn't stink."

"
Uh-huh."

I waited patiently (I have the patience of a saint
sometimes) while he moaned and pouted, then we went outside and
crossed Copley Square to where Joe's cruiser was parked on Boylston a
Street.

"
Want to walk down to the Boylston Street gym?
Liatis Roantis is giving a savate demonstration today," I said.
I thought it would I take Joe's mind off Lucia Fabrianni, the
stuck-up
norte
.

"What's savate?"

"French-Burmese foot-fighting. Roantis is really
good at it."

"I bet he is. Why doesn't he cut the fancy
bullshit and just use a machine gun?"

"I hear he's good with those too."

"
I bet."

"
Want to go over to the North End?"

"
Nah."

"
Want to go down to Dunfey's and get a couple of
draft Harps?"

"Nah."

"Want to quit feeling sorry for yourself because
your forefathers weren't from Florence?"

He shrugged and said yeah, okay. We swayed over to
the storefront window of Ehrlich's tobacco shop. We stared at the
pipes, pewter beer mugs, cigars, fancy ashtrays, and lighters in
silence. Joe shifted his weight from foot to foot, his hands shoved
down into his trenchcoat pockets. He moved his arms in and out,
flapping the coat open and closed idly like a giant wading bird on
its nest.

"Look at those lighters," he said.

"
Uh-huh. What about Lucia's watch? Think it
means anything?"

"Yep. It's a helluva coincidence if it doesn't.
Remember I said the guy looked Italian. I'll make you a gent's wager
that at least one of the Fabrianni staff turns up missing tomorrow.
Hell, maybe we should get a post-mortem pix of the guy and check it
out now. Question is, why? What's the connection between the dead guy
in the chimney and the Fabriannis and their treasures? The cup was
safely returned to the Fogg from the hotel, so Johnny didn't have it
in his pouch."

"Okay, right. But maybe the thugs didn't know
that. They're associated with the show and know the value of the
piece. They set up the ambush—"

"You keep saying
they
—"

"
Two
gas masks, remember?"

"Right.
They
."

"They set it up, kill Johnny, and snag the
pouch. But then they discover the cup isn't there—"

"Ah! Or maybe Johnny was carrying something else
from the Fogg, something smaller that they could easily fence . . ."

Joe decided to have somebody from his office follow
up with a post-mortem photograph to show to Lucia. Then he went back
to staring at the window.

"Gee, I want to go in there and look at those
fancy lighters, Doc. Too bad it's closed."

"There's a tobacconist's in the Copley Plaza
that's open; we passed it on the way out."

That was all the invitation he needed. In three
minutes we were back in the hotel, looking down through the glass of
the counter display case, checking out the lighters. But the kind Joe
was looking for wasn't there. He grew morose and impatient, asking
the clerk if he carried Orsini lighters.

"We keep them in back, sir. They're not asked
for that often. Excuse me a minute."

He returned shortly with two red leather cases which
he unfolded on the glass counter. Set on the plush lining were about
twenty lighters. They looked like the one Lucia had used. Joe was
agitated: No, he was excited. He was all in a sweat to get one. Then
he took a peek at one of the small tags underneath.

"Jees! Six hundred twenty-five bucks! Uh . . . I
don't know. Doc, whaddayuh think?"

"I think it's dumb. Get a Zippo for six bucks.
You'll never lose a cheap lighter. Just like a cheap pen. But you get
one of those, you'll lose it within a month."

But he couldn't take his eyes off the cases of fancy
lighters. Some were blue and gold. Their labels said they were lapis
lazuli and pure gold. Big deal. Others were platinum and onyx,
tortoiseshell and gold, and so on. Joe was transfixed; he was going
to be awhile.

"Yeah, yeah— how about this one? No, the
blue," he said impatiently.

Now that I considered, I wished Ehrlich's was open; I
needed tobacco. I bought a small tin and some Te Amo coronas. Joe
looked at lighters. Finally he appeared at my side, ready to go. He
hadn't bought anything. We left the shop and walked over I to Joe's
car. I put my bag of tobacco and cigars on the seat beside me. Joe
eyed the bag enviously.