The Rich Shall Inherit (3 page)

It was rumored that Carraldo was a man of steel whose nightlong sessions left him still in control and his partners exhausted—and that he liked his sex rough. “Orgies,” the gossip said, “week-long debauches with every vice and peversion imaginable …” But Carraldo, suave and with a faint smile, was impervious to gossip, and
no one
ever refused an invitation to his parties.

The only man in whom he had ever confided was his great friend Paolo Rinardi, but Paolo had died tragically fourteen years ago, and now there was no one who knew exactly how Antony Carraldo had amassed his great fortune, and
who
and
what
he was.
No one who knew the truth.

As the sleek black plane swooped onto the runway at London’s Heathrow, a pile of newspapers lay crumpled on the floor at Carraldo’s feet. He frowned, pressing his fingers against his brow as the pain fluttered in his chest like a tiny saw-edged knife. Taking a silver box from his pocket, he removed a small pill and placed it under his tongue, lying back in his seat waiting for it to take effect and thinking of the extraordinary advertisement. He was quite sure that if Francesca Rinardi had anything to do with it, she would claim that Aria was the heiress to Poppy Mallory’s fortune, whether she believed it was true or not. But if it was, then he stood to lose the one treasure he prized most in the world. And Carraldo wasn’t a man who lost easily.

Calling Enrico, he asked to be put through on the radio-phone to the Banco Credito e Maritimo in Zurich, Switzerland. He spoke with Giuseppe Alliere, its president, instructing him to use his contacts to obtain from the offices of the lawyer, Johannes Lieber, a list of the purported claimants to Poppy Mallory’s estate.

*  *  *

Claudia Galli decided she loathed Paris today. She hated its ancient tree-lined avenues and its beautiful buildings; she hated its tiled mansard roofs and cobbled courtyards; she hated its cafes and restaurants and its glittering shop windows displaying the most luxurious and beautiful clothes in the world. She hated it all because she was broke, and in her view, to be broke in Paris was a sin.

A small black cat ran between her feet, almost tripping her as she sauntered from the elevator of her elegant apartment building near the Avenue Foch. She aimed an angry kick with a slim foot, exquisitely shod in Maud Frizon’s supple suede and alligator. “Bastard,” she hissed. Broke or in funds, Claudia hated cats.

Emerging onto the street, she paused to scan the autumn sky. The clouds looked low and threatening and there was a chill wind lifting the last of the leaves from the black branches of the trees. Snuggling deeper into her collar, she thanked God that at least she still had a good fur—of course, it wasn’t
sable
—her sables were long gone—but at least it wasn’t mink. Fisher was a perfectly respectable compromise on the status scale. And, talking of scale and status, what was her life reduced to now?

Claudia lived in a tiny studio apartment at the rear of a smart building with a close-up view of the garbage cans. She supposed she could have found something larger for her money in a cheaper arrondissement, but here at least she had a good address, and that’s what counted. And besides, she hadn’t anticipated spending much time in her apartment. Right now, for instance, she’d expected to be sifting through a sheaf of invitations; she’d thought she would be spending Christmas at the Malinkoffs’ villa at the smart new Mexican resort Costa Careyes, and then maybe a week or two at the Listers’ chalet in Gstaad, and then on to Barbados … but somehow, this year, those invitations hadn’t materialized. Her “friends” had realized she was on the lookout for a new husband and they weren’t about to risk their own by having her around. Claudia was notoriously unscrupulous about these things. She was thirty-six years old and considered a beautiful woman—well, a very
attractive
woman—tall, with slender hips and high, round breasts that were larger than was fashionable but were one of her greatest assets. Yet sometimes, like now, being too attractive worked against her.

Biting her lip angrily, she searched the street for a taxi. Of course, Pierluigi would tell her she could no longer afford to take
taxis, but damn Pierluigi, he’d never taken a subway in his life, so why should he expect her to do so? “Rue de Rivoli, Angelina’s,” she told the cab driver curtly, hoping she’d find someone there to pick up the tab for her breakfast coffee and brioche.

The chic cafe was practically empty except for two or three tables occupied by tourists. Of course, Claudia thought sullenly, everyone who was anyone was in New York for Pavarotti’s concert and the Museum of Modern Art “Fashion” party … she would have been there, too, but the airlines had told her coldly that her Amex card was no longer valid and they had canceled her reservation.

It was all her father’s fault, she thought angrily, blaming him, as she always did, for her own troubles. Aleksandr Galli had been a recluse and an eccentric who had rejected the family name of Rinardi in favor of his wife’s name—Galli. He had refused to live in the family villa or the Venetian palazzo, waiving his claim to the properties and the title of Barone Rinardi in favor of his cousin Paolo. Claudia had never forgiven him for that; she could have used those houses, stocked full of expensive treasures. Instead, when he’d died, all he’d left them was the remote Villa Velata that nobody wanted!

She stared dolefully into her coffee cup, stirring in two spoons of forbidden sugar and deciding she would call Pierluigi one more time in New York. He would have to answer her calls eventually, even though he was angry with her. Pierluigi never could resist her for long.
He needed her.
Her twin brother was an immensely successful commodities broker, and even though there had been some disquieting reports in the papers about the market the last few months she was sure Pierluigi would be all right. He never let anything get in the way of his success.

It was while she was flicking through the pages of
Le Monde
to check the stock market reports that Claudia saw the ad for Poppy Mallory’s heir. Her eyes widened as she studied it, and then she sat back in her chair, dunked her bioche in her coffee, and took a large and satisfying bite. This could be just what she needed … maybe, just
maybe
, her luck had changed … if only she could figure it out properly. And just maybe, too, she wouldn’t call hateful Pierluigi. Not yet. Not until she needed him.

Pierluigi Galli’s face was impassive as he sat at the elegantly appointed table in the Regency Hotel on New York’s Park Avenue, listening attentively to what his breakfast companion had to say.

“Of course, it would have been better if you’d gotten out six months ago,” Warren James told him, biting into the most delicious blueberry muffin he’d ever tasted, “but it’s still not too late … just!” he added, chewing his muffin thoughtfully.

Pierluigi toyed with his beautiful bowl of fresh fruit salad. He was an abstemious man and fine food and wines held little attraction for him. He never drank coffee or tea and now he sipped a glass of Badoit water saying nothing.

“It was foolhardy to carry on when the metals market was that risky,” declared Warren, signaling the waiter for a second basket of muffins, “and in my opinion you’re damn lucky to have come out with your shirt. As it is, you’ve taken a hell of a beating … God damn it, man, at a time like this I expected you to get out of the market, like everyone else, not take a flyer on tin!”

“I know all that, Warren,” Pierluigi replied smoothly. “And now that your lecture is over, we’ll get back to the point of our meeting. I need your backing in order to get into my next project.
I need five million
, Warren—and
fast.”

The banker glanced at him from beneath bushy gray eyebrows. “Sorry, Pierluigi, but I just can’t come up with that much. Look,” he added reasonably, “we’ve had a good relationship for a lot of years and I respect your business judgment. Commodities is a risk business, and somehow you’ve always known instinctively when to get in and when to get out—but this time you blew it. On the strength of our old relationship, Pierluigi, I can go for a million. No more.”

“Thanks, Warren.” Standing up, Pierluigi adjusted the crease in his impeccably pressed trousers and buttoned his jacket. “I’m already late for another meeting,” he said quietly, “so I’m afraid I must be on my way.” His voice had an icy edge and Warren glanced at him warily. Pierluigi had the reputation of being a ruthless man in business and particularly with his enemies.

“Now, Pierluigi,” he protested, “you couldn’t honestly expect any more—under the circumstances.”

“You are quite right, of course,” he replied, unsmiling, “and I have no option but to accept your offer. Thank you, Warren … I’ll take care of the bill on my way out.” Turning on his heel, he left the banker with a mouthful of blueberry muffin and a frown on his face.

Outside the sky was gray and a cold wind gusted around the corner. Pierluigi turned up the collar of his dark blue cashmere overcoat as he strode smartly along Park Avenue. He wanted to
walk for a while, think a few things out before heading for Wall Street. It was still only seven-thirty in the morning and normally he was in his office at five. Very little mattered to Pierluigi Galli except work—the specific type of work that he had chosen. He enjoyed being a commodities broker because it was all one great gamble and, until a couple of months ago, he’d always come out the winner. But now he’d lost a serious part of the considerable fortune he’d amassed, and if he didn’t get backing—more than Warren was prepared to offer, and Warren wasn’t his only banker—then he was in serious trouble. In fact, the sum he needed was closer to twenty million than the five he’d asked from Warren. He’d been hoping to raise it from several sources, but now it looked as though he’d be pushed to come up with even a third of that amount.

A cab swept into the curb in response to his outstretched hand and he climbed in, giving his office address on Wall Street. Pierluigi never had trouble getting taxis or the best tables in New York’s many smart restaurants, or the attention of headwaiters. There was an air of command about his gaunt-faced, impeccably dressed figure that somehow placed him as a master of all he surveyed, triggering a response to serve him. Yet he never over-tipped and rarely smiled. He simply expected service and he got it. The traffic was jammed solid at the corner of Fifty-second and Lexington, and with a sigh he shook open
The Wall Street Journal
and began to check the market ratings.

Much later that evening, when he was alone in his designer-decorated office where the chic dark green walls were adorned with oil paintings of English landscapes and Italian virgins, and the pedimented walnut shelves displayed rows of leather-bound books, Pierluigi picked up the newspaper again. And this time he read the ad about Poppy Mallory. It gave him a great deal to think about.

Pouring himself a glass of ten-year-old Scotch single-malt whisky from Glenfiddich, he sipped it with a smile. So, he thought, the family skeletons were emerging from the cupboard—at last. How very, very opportune.

Orlando Messenger’s thick blond hair gleamed in the fitful London sunlight as he navigated the zebra crossings at Sloane Square, heading toward the large W. H. Smith shop on the south side; but it wasn’t just his blond hair that turned every female head—the rest of him lived up to that Nordic-looking promise. Orlando was six feet four inches tall with a natural golden tan
that made his light blue eyes look even bluer. His generous mouth turned up just a fraction at the corners and his nose was slightly long and very straight.

He was back in England for an exhibition of his recent works to be held at a smart gallery in Mayfair, and he was on his way to Smith’s to pick up a copy of
The Times
to check that the announcement was in there. Without bothering to take his place in line, he grabbed a copy, thrust thirty pence at the girl at the cash desk and stroke from the shop, oblivious to the withering glares of the waiting customers still standing in line to pay. Weaving his way back through the traffic, he walked up Sloane Street to L’Express.

Orlando nodded to the waitresses, scanning the tables casually for familiar faces, but the cafe was quiet this early. Ordering a double espresso, he eased himself onto a chrome and black stool at the bar and leafed through the pages until he came to the Arts section. Yes, there it was—not as big as he’d expected but nevertheless quite prominently displayed,
Art Exhibition of the recent oils, watercolours and gouaches of Orlando Messenger to be held at the Maze Gallery, Cork Street, Mayfair, London W. I. November 15-December 5.

Well, that was that. All that remained now was for people to show up and buy his paintings. He was certain the opening would be crowded with international names—some whose houses he had stayed in, some whom he had painted, and some he had made love to. But these were not
buyers.
These people expected things to be
given
to them! What Orlando needed now were
real
customers.

There was no money left in the Messenger family. Before he died, his father had claimed it had all been spent on Orlando’s expensive education, and on his late wife’s thirst for gin and long cruises and losing large sums at bridge and in the casinos. Not that there had been a great fortune in the first place, but now there was just an old and not very grand house in an unfashionable part of the countryside that, after half a century of neglect, needed a fortune spent on it to make it habitable.

Orlando scanned the newspaper and sipped his espresso, thanking God that at least now they’d learned how to make decent coffee in England. There was no avoiding the large ad for Poppy Mallory’s heir, squared off with black lines so that it jumped from the page, and he stared quietly at it for some time. Then, with a smile at the waitress that he knew would melt her
heart and send chills through her body, he ordered another espresso and a croissant. But it should have been champagne he was ordering, because Orlando Messenger had just seen the answer to all his problems.