When in Rome (23 page)

‘Of course, Signor Questore,’ Giovanni said. The intercom buzzed. Valdarno took another call.

An officer came in and removed Giovanni, who darted a look at Il Questore’s back and as he passed Alleyn rapidly mimed a spit into his face. The officer barked at him and pushed him out. Violetta, thought Alleyn, would not have stopped short at pantomime.

‘These students!’ cried Valdarno, leaving the telephone. ‘What do they suppose they achieve? Now, they burn up Vespa motorcycles. Why? Possibly they are other students’ Vespas. Again, why? You were speaking of the signed statement. I would be greatly obliged if you would combine with Bergarmi.’ The buzzer sounded.
‘Basta!’
shouted Il Questore and answered it.

Alleyn joined Bergarmi, who received him with a strange blend of huffishness and relief. He had written out a résumé in Italian, based on his own notes of the now desperately familiar experiences of the travellers in the depths of S. Tommaso. Alleyn found this accurate and put it into English. ‘Would you like a check of the translation by a third person, Signor Vice-Questore?’ he asked. Bergarmi made deprecatory noises. ‘After all,’ he said, ‘it is no longer of the first importance, all this. Giovanni Vecchi’s evidence and the fact that this—’ he slapped the statement ‘—does nothing to contradict it and, above all, Sweet’s attempt to escape, are sufficient, for our purpose. The case is virtually closed.’

Alleyn pushed his translation across the table. ‘There is just one thing I’d like to suggest.’

‘Yes? And that is?’

‘The Van der Veghels took photographs in the Mithraeum and the insula. Flashlights. Two by the Baroness and one by the Baron. Kenneth Dorne also took one. After that, when we were returning, the Baroness photographed the sarcophagus. I thought you might like to produce these photographs.’

‘Ah. Thank you. The sarcophagus, yes. Yes. That might be interesting.’

‘If it shows the piece of shawl?’

‘Quite so. It would limit the time. To some extent that is true. It would show that the woman Violetta was murdered before you all left the Mithraeum. By Mailer, of course. There can be no doubt, by Mailer. It would not help us—not that we need this evidence—to fix a precise time for Sweet’s attack upon Mailer. We have, my dear Signor Super,’ said Bergarmi with evident pleasure in discovering this new mode of address, ‘motive. From your own investigation of Sweet.’ Alleyn made a wry face. ‘Intent. As evidenced in suspicious behaviour noted by Vecchi. Opportunity. Apart from Signor Dorne and his Aunt Baroness (this latter being a ludicrous notion), he is the only one with opportunity.’

‘With the greatest respect—the only one?’

‘Signore?’

‘Well,’ Alleyn said apologetically, ‘it’s just that I wonder if Giovanni was speaking all of the truth all of the time.’

After a considerable pause Bergarmi said, ‘I find no occasion to doubt it.’ And after an even longer pause: ‘He had no motive, no cause to attack Mailer.’

‘He had every reason, though, to attack Sweet. But don’t give it another thought.’

Alleyn’s translation was typed, with copies, by a brisk bilingual clerk. During this period Bergarmi was rather ostentatiously busy. When the transcription was ready he and Alleyn went to the lesser office where for the second and last time the travellers were assembled. At Bergarmi’s request Alleyn handed out the copies.

‘I find this a correct summary of our joint statements,’ Alleyn said, ‘and am prepared to sign it. What about everyone else?’

Lady Braceley, who was doing her face, said with an unexpected flight of fancy: ‘I’d sign my soul to the devil if he’d get me out of here.’ She turned her raffish and disastrous gaze upon Alleyn. ‘You’re being too wonderful,’ she predictably informed him.

He said, ‘Lady Braceley, I wonder—simply out of curiosity, you know—whether you noticed anything at all odd in Sweet’s manner when he took you up to the atrium. Did you?’

He thought she might seize the chance to tell all how responsive she was to atmosphere and how she had sensed that something was wrong, or possibly come out with some really damaging bit of information.
All she said, however, was: ‘I just thought him a bloody rude, common little man.’ And after a moment’s thought: ‘And I’ll eat my hat if he was ever in the Gunners.’ She waited again for a moment and then said, ‘All the same, it’s quite something, isn’t it, to have been trotted about by a murderer, however uncivil? My dear, we’ll dine on it: Kenny and I. Won’t we, darling?’

Her nephew looked up at her and gave a sort of restless acknowledgement. ‘I just don’t go with all this carry-on,’ he complained.

‘I
know
, darling. Too confusing. Three dead people in as many days, you might say. Still, it’s a wonderful relief to be in the clear oneself.’ She contemplated Bergarmi, smiling at him with her head on one side. ‘He really
doesn’t
speak English, does he? He’s not making a nonsense of us?’

Bergarmi muttered to Alleyn, ‘What is she saying? Does she object to signing? Why is she smiling at me?’

‘She doesn’t object. Perhaps she has taken a fancy to you, Signor Vice-Questore.’

‘Mamma mia!’

Alleyn suggested that if they were all satisfied they would sign and Lady Braceley instantly did so, making no pretence of reading the statement. The Van der Veghels were extremely particular and examined each point with anxious care and frequent consultations. Barnaby Grant and Sophy Jason read the typescript with professional concentration. Then they all signed. Bergarmi told them, through Alleyn, that they were free to go. They would be notified if their presence at the inquest was required. He bowed, thanked them and departed with the papers.

The six travellers rose, collected themselves and prepared, with evident signs of relief, to go their ways.

Sophy and Barnaby Grant left together and the Van der Veghels followed them.

Lady Braceley with her eye on Alleyn showed signs of lingering.

Kenneth had lounged over to the door and stood there, watching Alleyn with his customary furtive, sidelong air. ‘So that would appear to be that,’ he threw out.

‘You remember,’ Alleyn said, ‘you took a photograph of Mithras when we were all down there?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Have you had it developed?’

‘No.’

‘Is it in black-and-white or colour?’

‘Black-and-white,’ Kenneth mumbled. ‘It’s meant to be better for the architecture and statues bit.’

‘Mine are being developed by the police expert, here. They’ll only take a couple of hours. Would you like me to get yours done at the same time?’

The film’s not finished. Thank you very much, though.’

Lady Braceley said, ‘No, but do let Mr Alleyn get it done, darling. You can’t have many left. You never stopped clicking all through that extraordinary picnic on the what-not hill. And you must admit it will have a kind of grisly interest. Not that
I’ll
be in the one Mr Alleyn’s talking about, you know—the bowels of the earth. Do give it to him.’

‘It’s still in my camera.’

‘And your camera’s in the car. Whip down and get it.’

‘Darling Auntie—it’ll wait. Need we fuss?’

‘Yes,’ she said pettishly, ‘we need. Go
on
, darling!’ He slouched off.

‘Don’t come all the way back,’ Alleyn called after him. ‘I’ll collect it down there. I won’t be a moment.’

‘Sweet of you,’ Lady Braceley said, and kissed her hand. ‘We’ll wait.’

When they had gone Alleyn went out to the lift landing and found the Van der Veghels busily assembling the massive photographic gear without which they seemed unable to move. He reminded the Baroness of the photographs she had taken in the Mithraic insula and offered to have the police develop the film.

‘I think,’ he said ‘that the police would still be very glad to see the shot you took of the sarcophagus, Baroness. I told them I’d ask you for it.’

‘You may have it. I do not want it. I cannot bear to think of it. Gerrit, my darlink, please give it to him. We wish for no souvenirs of that terrible day. Ach, no! No!’

‘Now, now, now,’ the Baron gently chided. ‘There is no need for such a fuss-pot. I have it here. One moment only and I produce it.’

But there was quite a lot to be done in the way of unbuckling and poking in their great rucksacks, and all to no avail.

Suddenly the Baroness gave a little scream and clapped her hand to her forehead.

‘But I am mad!’ she cried. ‘I forget next my own head.’

‘How?’

‘It was the young Dorne. Yesterday we arrange he takes it with his own development.’

‘So,’ said the Baron. ‘What a nonsense,’ and began with perfect good humour to re-assemble the contents of his rucksack.

‘He hasn’t done anything about it,’ Alleyn said. ‘If I may, I’ll collect your film with his.’

‘Good, good,’ agreed the Baron.

Alleyn said aside to him, ‘You’re sure you don’t want it?’

He shook his head, pursed his lips and frowned like a nanny.

‘No, no, no,’ he murmured. ‘You see how it is. My wife prefers—no. Although,’ he added rather wistfully, ‘there
are
some pictures—our little group, for instance. But never mind.’

‘I’ll let you know how it comes out,’ Alleyn said.

They went down in the lift together. He wondered if, long after the case of Sebastian Mailer had faded out of most people’s memories, he and the Van der Veghels would meet somewhere. The Baroness had cheered up. They were off on a coach trip to the water-gardens at the Villa d’Este. He walked with them to the main entrance. She went ahead with that singularly buoyant tread that made Alleyn think of the gait of some kind of huge and antique bird: a moa, perhaps.

‘My wife,’ said the Baron fondly regarding her, ‘has the wise simplicity of the classic age. She is a most remarkable woman.’ And dropping his voice, he added to himself rather than to Alleyn, ‘And to my mind, very beautiful.’

‘You are a fortunate man.’

‘That, also, is my opinion.’

‘Baron, will you have a drink with me? At about six o’clock? I will be able to show you your photographs. Since they would distress the Baroness I don’t ask you to bring her with you.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I shall be delighted. You are very considerate,’ and, shifting his rucksack on his massive shoulders, he called: ‘Mathilde, not so fast! Wait! I am coming.’

And he, also with springing gait, sped nimbly after his wife. They went down the street together, head and shoulders above the other pedestrians, elastically bobbing up and down and eagerly talking.

Kenneth Dorne sat at the wheel of a white sports-car with his aunt beside him. It occurred to Alleyn that they might have been served up neat by an over-zealous casting department as type-material for yet another
Dolce Vita.
Kenneth had one of the ridiculous ‘trendy’ caps on his head, a raspberry-coloured affair with a little peak. He was very white and his forehead glistened.

‘Here we are,’ cried Lady Braceley, ‘and here’s the film. Such a fuss! Come and have drinks with us this evening. I suppose it’s frightful of one, isn’t it, but one can’t help a feeling of relief. I mean that poisonous Giovanni terrifying one. And all lies. Kenneth knows that I told you. So, don’t you think a little celebration? Or don’t you?’

Kenneth stared at Alleyn with a pretty ghastly half-grin. His lips moved. Alleyn leant forward. ‘What am I to do?’ Kenneth mouthed.

Alleyn said aloud, ‘I’m afraid I’m booked for this evening.’ And to Kenneth, ‘You don’t look well. I should see a doctor if I were you. May I have the film?’

He handed it over. The carton was damp.

‘I think you’ve got the Baroness’s film too, haven’t you?’

‘Oh God, have I? Yes, of course. Where the hell—Here!’

He took it out of the glove-box and handed it over.

‘Can
we give you a lift?’ Lady Braceley asked with the utmost concern. ‘Do let us give you a lift.’

‘Thank you, no. I’ve a job to do here.’

The sports-car shot dangerously into the traffic.

Alleyn went back into the building.

He sought out Bergarmi and got the name and working address of their photographic expert. Bergarmi rang the man up and arranged for the films to be developed immediately.

He offered to accompany Alleyn to the photographic laboratory and when they got there expanded on his own attitude.

‘I have looked in,’ Bergarmi said, ‘to see our own photographs. A matter of routine, really. The case against Sweet is perfectly established by Giovanni Vecchi’s evidence alone. He now admits that he was aware of a liaison of some sort between Sweet and
Mailer and will swear that he heard Mailer threaten Sweet with exposure.’

‘I see,’ Alleyn said, ‘exposure of what? And to whom?’

‘Giovanni believes, Signore, that Mailer was aware of Sweet’s criminal record in England and threatened to expose his identity to you whom he had recognized.’

‘Very neat flashes of hindsight from Giovanni,’ said Alleyn drily. ‘I don’t believe a word of it. Do you?’

‘Well, Signore, that is his guess! His evidence of fact I accept entirely. The important point is that Sweet was in danger, for whatever reason, and that the threat came from Mailer. Who, of course, had discovered that Sweet was sent to spy upon him by Ziegfeldt. It is a familiar story, Signor Super, is it not? The cross and the double-cross. The simple solution so often the true one. The circumstance of Mailer being a
ricattatore
and of his extorting money from tourists has no real bearing on his murder, though Sweet may have hoped it would confuse the issue.’ Bergarmi’s quick glance played over Alleyn. ‘You are in doubt, Signor Super, are you not?’ he asked.

‘Pay no attention to me,’ Alleyn said. ‘I’m a foreigner, Signor Vice-Questore, and I should not try to fit Giovanni into an English criminal mould. You know your types and I do not.’

‘Well, Signore,’ said Bergarmi, smiling all over his face, ‘you have the great modesty to say so.’

The photographic expert came in. ‘They are ready, Signor Vice-Questore.’

‘Ecco!’
said Bergarmi, clapping Alleyn on the shoulder. ‘The pictures. Shall we examine?’

They were still submerged in their fixative solution along benches in the developing-room. The Questore’s photographs: Violetta in the sarcophagus with her tongue out. Violetta on the stretcher in the mortuary. Mailer’s jaw. Details. Alleyn’s photographs of Mailer, of a scrap of alpaca caught in a rail, of Mailer’s foot, sole uppermost, caught in the fangs of the grille, of boot polish on another rail. Of various papers found in Mailer’s apartment. Regulation shots that would fetch up in the police records.