Daggers and Men's Smiles. Jill Downie
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he can now tell us what to do. He can’t.”
“But as long as you didn’t have to breathe the same air as Mr. Ensor, you were prepared to let him live?”
“Christ, yes! I was in Rome until yesterday at Cinecittà — all kinds of people would be able to confirm that. And I flew back by private plane to be here for our meeting.”
“Thank you, sir. Just give DC Falla the details and any names.” Moretti turned his attention again to Gianfranco Vannoni, speaking to him as before in Italian.
“I understand, sir, that it was on your initiative that Epicure Films came to Guernsey.”
The marchesa’s son looked startled. “No. Not that I remember. Why?”
“I just wondered — why you were all here.”
“Detective Inspector,” it was Monty Lord who intervened, “perhaps I could fill you in?”
“Thank you, sir. If I could speak to you later today.” Moretti turned to his partner. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Signor Moretti,” the marchesa stood up, “my Anna will arrive soon, and we would like to take Toni back home.”
“And home is —?”
“Fiesole — you know it?”
“It’s quite close to Florence, isn’t it?”
“Si.” The marchesa nodded, and reached out for Monty Lord’s hand.
“I regret, Marchesa, that I cannot at this stage give you any definite day or time when we would be able to release the body. There will, of course, have to be a post-mortem, which will be performed at Princess Elizabeth Hospital.”
“Dio mio!”
Whatever else the marchesa might have said was lost in the shoulder of the American producer’s jacket, and Moretti took advantage of her dramatic collapse to make his escape.
As he left the room he could hear the sound of someone whistling. It was Giulia Vannoni. As she passed him she called out, “Don’t worry, Inspector. I have permission to leave, and I have promised to be back.”
She resumed her whistling as she passed him, running lightly and easily, her straight blond hair flopping heavily on her leather-clad shoulders. A long gone and, he had thought, long-forgotten love drifted back into his consciousness on the wings of her perfume. The name of both the woman and her perfume escaped him. The perfume’s name had something to do with chaos, or uproar. Something like that. The tune was more instantly recognizable: “La Donna è Mobile.”
Perhaps there is supposed to be a message in it for me, he thought. Although Valerie would say that in his case it was the man who was fickle. One minute committed, the next running in the opposite direction. Actually, he’d been committed — if not married — for years, but that was how she saw it.
The Ensors were waiting for him in the marchesa’s sitting room, which was also on the ground floor, near the front entrance. It was a small room compared to the others, simply furnished with English chintzes and numerous family photographs in silver frames. Sydney Tremaine sat on one of the deep window seats cut into the thick walls of the manor, and her husband lay slumped on one of the beflowered sofas. He seemed to be asleep.
“He didn’t know, you know,” was the first thing she said to Moretti. She looked pale and fragile in a white shirt of thin Indian cotton and khaki pants. “He’s had so much trouble over script changes, and he thought it was someone’s idea of a joke.”
At the sound of his wife’s voice, Gilbert Ensor opened his eyes and sat up. The marks left by the marchesa’s talons ran down his cheeks in parallel tracks of congealed blood.
“The bitch. See what she did? I could bring charges —”
“Probably not advisable in the circumstances.” Moretti’s crisp tones cut into the self-pitying whine. “But that must be your decision, naturally. Right now I would like to talk to you, Mr. Ensor, about your book and the film script for Rastrellamento.”
“How long have you got? Where would you like me to start?” The whine had changed to a petulant snappishness.
“Tell me, first of all, about your initial agreement with Epicure Films — what were the original changes that were agreed upon? What are the main differences between your novel and the script?”
“You know my work?”
“I read Rastrellamento some time ago. Refresh my memory.”
“You think all this has something to do with Gil’s book?” asked Sydney. She was looking puzzled.
“I don’t know. Perhaps we can rule it out. Go on, sir.”
“Well, there are two central plot lines: one is about a British prisoner hiding out in Tuscany just after the surrender of Mussolini, and the other concerns the struggle between the various factions in Italy at the time — the fascists, the partisans, the communists, and the efforts of the local population to deal with all these warring parties, including the presence of German troops. But if you know my work, you’ll know that I am interested in more than plot lines — I am interested in exploring the interactions of human beings, their philosophical stances and their justifications for their actions, conscious and unconscious. Much of this does not translate well to the screen, and I understand that. So much of that part of the book had to go.”
“What, do you think, attracted Monty Lord and Epicure Films to Rastrellamento?”
“Apart from my international celebrity?” Gilbert Ensor asked the question without the slightest trace of irony or self-deprecation. “Intrigue and exotic setting and historic period — and lashings of sex and violence.”
“I still don’t really understand why you’re so interested in all this.” Sydney Tremaine unfolded her long legs and perched on the edge of the window seat. “Don’t you want to know where we were and all that sort of thing?”
“Another officer will take a written statement from you both, but I am trying to establish some of the circumstances around the crime — the project you were all working on, what tensions may have arisen. Do daggers play a major role in the film, for instance?”
“Not a major role, but certainly knives were used by the resistance movement — as a silent way of killing, you understand.”
“And is there any reason in the script for you to be in Guernsey?”
“None at all. Now, that had a great deal to do with the bloke who’s just got a dagger in the chest. There’s a thought.”
“Yes.” Moretti watched the shadow crossing the flawless skin over Sydney Tremaine’s cheekbones. “I gather, Mr. Ensor, that you approved the initial cuts and alterations to your book, but that there have been changes since then that have given you problems. Why? Surely this is fairly normal in the film world?”
“The changes to the basic plot line are quite unnecessary. This isn’t Gilbert Ensor’s Rastrellamento any more — it’s more like Dante’s bloody Inferno.”
“In what way do you mean that?”
“The whole project’s become hell on fucking wheels is how I mean that — I was not speaking intellectually. Each day I spend in contact with the movie world I can feel my brain cells dying, my mental capacity shrinking like a weenie in cold water.”
Moretti ignored the outburst. “Your book and the movie have political content. If I remember rightly, you are harsh in your judgments of both the peasant population — the contadini — and the local aristocracy, when writing about their politics and their loyalties. Is it possible you have opened old wounds?”
“See, I wondered that.” Suddenly, Gilbert Ensor was quite serious. He leaned forward and offered Moretti a cigarette from a battered packet he pulled from his crumpled linen jacket.
“Thank