It was a fantasy worthy of Professor Schmidt at his most maudlin. I had been working for that man too long. I was beginning to think the way he did.
First I found the garage – or perhaps I should use the plural. The building held five cars and had room for half a dozen more. The silver Rolls Royce shone in lordly splendour, looming over a low-slung red sports car. There was also a dark-green Mercedes, a station wagon, and a tan Fiat.
I did a double take on the Fiat, and then decided it must be Luigi’s. Maybe he was going through the same sort of reverse snobbism that affects well-to-do American teenagers. That’s why they dress so sloppily, in T-shirts and jeans; they are being one with the oppressed masses. It’s rather sweet, I think. Silly, but sweet. Or maybe Luigi’s daddy was teaching him how the rest of the world lives. Parents are funny. The poor ones sweat and strain to give their kids all the advantages they lacked, and the rich ones preach the virtues of adversity and tell long, lying stories about how they had to walk ten miles to school every day.
In addition to the garage I found stables, a greenhouse, dozens of assorted sheds and cottages, and a carpenter’s shop. This last establishment kept me occupied for some time, but the tools were the usual saws and hammers and things. I found lots of buildings, but no people except for an elderly gardener asleep under a tree. I had picked the wrong time of day to check up on the employees. Like their master, they were all sleeping off their lunches. So I gave up and returned to the house, and put through my call to Schmidt. It was early, but I figured he would be waiting, all agog and full of questions, which he was.
He hadn’t received my letter yet. That wasn’t surprising, since the Italian mail service is erratic at best, so I gave him a brief rundown on the latest developments, which didn’t take long, unfortunately. I had plenty of time to dress and get ready to go down for cocktails, anticipating another tedious evening with Romberg and Rudolf Friml and the Great Pietro, master of illusion.
The evening started innocently enough. As I approached the door of the drawing room I was greeted by a rippling cascade of notes. Someone was playing Chopin, and playing quite well.
The ivory drawing room was Pietro’s favourite. It was a lovely room, done in white and gold, with a great crystal chandelier and gilded stucco cherubs chasing one another around the ceiling. The furniture was upholstered in ivory brocade. The grand piano was gold too, but it was a Bechstein, and the paint hadn’t affected its tone.
When I entered the room Smythe cocked an impudent blue eye at me and switched from the ballade he had been playing to a more romantic étude. The footman on duty offered a tray. I took a glass of champagne, and went to the piano.
‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you take up music as a profession, and stop leading a life of crime?’
‘Not good enough,’ Smythe said briefly. His hands chased one another up and down the keyboard. ‘I do better with a harpsichord, but I’m not professional at that either.’
‘I’d like to hear you. Surely Pietro has a few harpsichords scattered around.’
‘The harpsichord is in the green salone,’ Smythe said.
‘At least play something sensible,’ I insisted. He had switched to one of the more syrupy themes from a Tchaikovsky symphony.
‘I play mood music,’ Smythe said, nodding his shining golden head towards a sofa in the corner of the room.
The light of early evening suffused the room, leaving the corners in blue shadow. I hadn’t noticed Pietro and his lady; they were sitting side by side, holding hands and whispering sweet nothings.
‘What happened?’ I asked in a low voice. ‘I thought they were about to break up.’
‘So did I. Someone must have given the lady good advice. I thought it was you.’
‘I gave her some advice, yes. But I didn’t think she’d apply it so literally. By the way, I know you checked up on me, but I didn’t realize you had done such a thorough job. That crack about my experience with ghosts – ’
‘I’d love to hear the details of that story sometime,’ said Smythe, energetically pounding out chords.
‘I doubt that you ever will. How did you – ’
‘My dear girl, your friend Schmidt has told half Munich about his brilliant assistant.’
‘And you have friends in Munich?’
‘I have friends in all sorts of places. And I make new friends very easily.’
‘I’ll bet you do.’
I turned away from the piano. Pietro detached himself from Helena and sat up.
‘So there you are, Vicky. I have been telling Helena about the architecture of ancient Greek temples.’
‘Oh, really,’ I said. ‘Fascinating subject, isn’t it, Helena?’
Helena giggled. She sounded as if she were in a very pleasant mood. She stirred lazily, and as she did so I caught a flash of light that dazzled me. Pietro had gone to the table, where a tray of hors d’oeuvres was set out, so I sat down next to Helena.
No wonder she was in a good mood. Pinned to the sweeping contours of her breast was the source of the dazzle – a brooch as big as a bread-and-butter plate. It was a Baroque piece, white gold and diamonds and pearls, set with plaques of antique cameos. Eighteenth-century taste, like Helena’s, was inclined to be gaudy. But she was obviously very happy with her prize; her round face beamed as she contemplated the jewel over her double chin.
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘It must be love.’
Helena giggled again.
‘It is only a loan,’ she whispered, in a conspiratorial tone. ‘So he says. But I think I will forget to give it back to him, eh?’
‘Mmmm,’ I said.
‘Come to the window, so you can see it better.’
I was happy to do so, since I wanted a closer look at the brooch. Helena didn’t take it off; she probably thought I would grab it and run, as she would have been tempted to do if the situation had been reversed. But I could see it quite well. It was prominently displayed.
I could have sworn it was genuine. No, take that back; I wouldn’t have staked my reputation on any piece in Pietro’s collection, knowing what I knew. But this didn’t seem like the sort of thing my jeweller friend would copy. The laboratory boys haven’t succeeded in making a synthetic diamond that can be mass-produced cheaply. Besides, though this brooch was worth more money than I was, it wasn’t unique. Pietro had other jewels in his collection that were worth much more.
I admired the effect, while Helena preened herself and simpered. We were still standing there by the window when the door opened and the dowager entered, leaning on her grandson’s arm.
Helena must have known there would be trouble over that brooch, but she was ready to brazen it out. She stuck out her chin and her chest; the diamonds caught the sunlight in a scintillant flash, and the dowager, whose eyes were as keen as her old limbs were feeble, stopped short. She didn’t speak, but I heard her breath come out in a hiss like that of an angry snake. Her beady black eyes narrowed, reminding me of the zoological fact that birds were reptilian in origin.
Pietro hastily turned his back and began eating hors d’oeuvres. Luigi dropped the old lady’s arm. She made no attempt to stop him, although she must have anticipated what he would do. She limped to a chair and sat down.
Then Luigi exploded.
There is no point in repeating what he said, even if I could remember all the words. He had an excellent command of vulgar invective, as do most kids his age, but the tirade was rendered pathetic by the fact that he couldn’t quite keep his voice under control. Finally it broke altogether – with sheer rage, I’m sure – and he ran out of the room. The footman held the door for him.