Daggers and Men's Smiles. Jill Downie
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stopping briefly to admire a luscious still life of flowers and fruit. “I wonder how much of this was changed by the film company — or does it always look like a Medici palazzo?”
“All I know is that one of the staff who’s my father’s cousin said working here was like being in Tuscany, where she’d done a wine tour one year.”
Ahead of them now was the principal reception room. And in the centre of the stateroom, amid golden brocade-covered walls, were gathered the marchesa, the woman Mario Bianchi had identified as Giulia Vannoni, and another man whom Moretti didn’t recognize. He was young, in his early twenties, handsome, but with a softness in his features that suggested a character flaw rather than gentleness or any more positive quality. The incongruous presence of two movie cameras against the golden walls added to the impression that the group was waiting for someone to shout “action!”
The three sat side by side on a gilded sofa, unsmiling, staring unblinkingly at the two policeman. Giulia Vannoni stood by the fireplace, drinking from a bottle of mineral water. She had unzipped her tight-fitting red leather jacket, displaying a minute black lycra bandeau and a tanned length of torso. Her black leather pants looked as if they had been spray-painted onto her spectacular haunches. The quintessential mesomorph, thought Moretti. He introduced himself and DC Falla.
“I’m sorry we kept you waiting. If I could first make sure we have your names correctly. You are —?” Moretti directed his first question to the young man.
“Gianfranco Vannoni.” He spread his hands and gave a shrug. “I do not speak much English.”
“My son.” It was the marchesa who spoke. “He lives in Italy, looking after our business affairs. But for the moment he is helping Mario on Rastrellamento — as assistant director. I can speak or translate for him, if necessary.”
“No need, marchesa. I speak Italian, if necessary,” said Moretti. He watched with interest as three sets of eyebrows went up.
“Moretti — you are Italian?” asked Monty Lord.
“My father was.” Moretti went swiftly through the formalities and then said, “This is a trying time for you. I am very sorry about the tragic death of Mr. Albarosa.”
“Murder.” It was the marchesa who spoke. “Murder, Detective Inspector Moretti. A sick mind playing games, perhaps. But murder. My poor daughter has been informed. She is on her way here, to say goodbye to her dear husband, the father of her children.”
The Marchesa Donatella Vannoni was, in her own way, as impressive physically as her niece. Full-lipped and full-hipped, with a mane of dark hair streaked with grey, she was an Anna Magnani of a woman, with an aura of raw sensuality about her. But somehow she conveyed an air of austere grandeur, a cold remoteness, a structure built to keep people out. There was a marked divergence between her physical opulence and her conservative style of dressing: her lush curves were controlled beneath a dark grey carapace of a dress, and a bruisingly thick gold necklace lay over the generous shelf of her bosom like a chain-link barrier against infiltrators.
Yet, in a moment of uncontrollable anger, those long carmine nails had raked Gilbert Ensor’s face.
“Indeed. We will have to have written statements from everyone, but I’d like to ask you now where you all were around four o’clock this morning — and I realize that, for most of you, the answer will be, in bed. But I’d like to know who sleeps on the premises and who does not.”
“I, of course, sleep here.” It was the marchesa.
“Does your room face the terrace?”
“Yes. I imagine your next question will be, did I hear anything, or see anything. I did not. I sleep soundly and well.”
“Signor Vannoni?”
Gianfranco Vannoni replied in Italian. “I was here last night. Does that make me a suspect?” A man used to charming his way through life, thought Moretti. He cannot resist the dangerous question, asked with humour. A charming moue of the lips and a gentle twist of his hands, their tan setting off the gleaming gold bracelet he wore.
“It could,” said Moretti. “Tell me more.”
“I went to bed early — I had to be on set by eight o’clock, and we had a meeting at nine scheduled for myself, Mario, Monty, and Gilbert Ensor. Mario was expecting fireworks.”
“From —?”
At this moment a door on the far side of the room opened, and a middle-aged man wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black pants burst into the room. He rushed across to the marchesa, who stood up, fell into his arms, and started to cry.
“It’s okay, cara, I’m here, I’m here,” he said in Italian to her. They made a somewhat incongruous couple, because the marchesa was taller than her comforter and had to crouch to be consoled. He looked up and saw Moretti.
“Monty Lord,” he said. “Forgive me, but I just got back from Italy. I met Piero in the corridor, and he told me about Toni. This is terrible, terrible.” He sat down, taking the marchesa with him in his arms.
“You are the producer of Rastrellamento?” Moretti asked.
“That is correct.”
Monty Lord was a small man in his fifties, whose shaven head seemed almost too big for his body. The darkness of his clothing brought into prominence a pair of piercing pale eyes set in a tanned face, and Moretti felt as if it were himself and his sergeant who were under examination from the shrewd, searching look to which they were both subjected.
“Mr. Vannoni was just telling me that he, you, and Mario Bianchi had a meeting scheduled for nine o’clock.”
“Right. I was joining them as soon as I got in from the airport.”
“He was saying that you were expecting fireworks and I asked from whom?”
“Gilbert,” Monty Lord replied. “I gather from Piero you already had a preview.”
Before Moretti could respond, Monty Lord went on. “Time is money, Detective Inspector. And the marchesa has had a terrible shock. Can any of this wait?”
“The sooner we get some sort of picture of the victim from those who knew him best — and an idea of the whereabouts of everyone on the set, the sooner we can establish motive, opportunity — and the guilty party.”
“But surely,” said the marchesa, “this is just a random act by some madman? You know, of course, about what happened to the costumes.”
She was interrupted by her niece who turned away from the fireplace to face Ed Moretti and Liz Falla, giving them the benefit of an alluring smile from her beautiful, heavily lipsticked mouth. “— and the attack on Gilbert Ensor. And you didn’t ask me where I slept, Inspector. But it wasn’t here.”
The intervention of Giulia Vannoni seemed to anger Monty Lord. He turned his pale gaze in her direction and exclaimed, “Oh for Christ’s sake, if we all keep interrupting we’ll never get out of here.”
This room reeks of animosity and anxiety, Moretti thought. But I’m not sure who mistrusts whom — or do they all dislike each other? He saw a look of distaste on the face of Gianfranco Vannoni as the American put a hand on his mother’s arm. Her niece, on the other hand, looked mildly amused. “Detective Constable Falla will take statements from each of you, separately. Is there a room close by she can use?”
“She can use my study,” said the marchesa. She added, “The Ensors are in my private sitting room — you will, of course, be talking to them?”
“Of course,” said Moretti. “I expected to find them in here with you.”
Monty Lord snorted. “Donatella did not want to be in the same room as Mr. Ensor after the tasteless accusation he made out there. And the less I have to do with Gil the better — we have to meet from time to time, but I’m happier if I’m not breathing the same air as that literary lout.”
“Were